“She really hasn’t said anything in a week?” Adam asks me, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
“Eight days,” I say to him, shifting slightly. Fatigue is beginning to wear at my edges. I press the heel of my hand to my forehead in a vain attempt to dispel the building pressure. “And no. Not a word.”
I know she’s capable of volatility.
I got a clear read on her when she’d first regained consciousness upon arrival in The New Republic. She’d been so unwell that her heart had nearly flatlined; she was so unstable that she’d vomited. I’ve seen her eyes brighten with fear; I’ve seen her face animate with feeling; I’ve seen her cheeks flush with color. I was able to get a read on her even when she’d been lying in the morgue, freshly awoken from the dead. She’d seemed to be processing something like grief, of all things, which surprised me. I even got a read on her right before her incarceration, when she’d been able to hide neither her shock nor her chaotic feelings toward my younger brother. I knew my tactical maneuver had paid off when I felt her horror at reuniting with her father; and I didn’t mistake her feelings then.
We should’ve seen results by now.
Without warning, I feel Adam relent to a crashing wave of disappointment. He gives up his position by the window and flops down in a hard chair, the metal legs scraping the concrete floor as he sighs. Right away, his knee starts bouncing. His body language alone shouts that he doesn’t want to be here, but I can actually feel his anxiety building, nervous energy gathering in the room like a storm. It makes me restless. My chest tightens.
I already know what he’s going to say.
I’ve known for several minutes now. I’ve been trying to resolve my own disappointment as I wait for him to tell me what’s now obvious.
In the interim, I glance at the time.
These days have begun to take on a pattern. Hugo gave upany proper efforts at interrogation about fifteen minutes ago; he’s now sagging against the back wall, visibly distraught. I close my eyes a moment, trying to shut his escalating pain out of my head. Hugo is on track for a complete breakdown, which is usually how these sessions end.
“I’m sorry, man,” Adam finally says. “I wish I could help, but it’s like—I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like trying to catch a fish with my bare hands. Sometimes I think I’ve got something, but then it’s gone, like I might be imagining it. If she has some kind of power or shield up, I don’t think it’s normal. I can’t get a handle on it.”
I manage to nod. My head is pounding. Adam’s misplaced guilt is assaulting me. “Thank you for coming in anyway,” I say to him. “I know you don’t like involving yourself in these matters.”
Adam doesn’t disagree with me.
In fact, my words seem to give him tacit permission to surrender to his own discomfort, and suddenly I’m shotgunned by the weight of his unleashed aversion.
“It’s so damn creepy in here,” he says, looking around the enclosed space. “I don’t know how you do this every day.”
There’s a sudden upsurge in Hugo’s agony, and I nearly strain my neck trying to shake it off.
“You say that,” I force out, “as if you think I enjoy being here.”
“Don’t you?” Adam asks.
I shoot him a dark look. He laughs.
“What?” he says, crossing his arms. “Isn’t this, like, your natural habitat? I thought you liked—” Adam physicallyrecoils, metal screeching through the room as he pushes back in his chair, nearly falling over. “Jesus, is he crying?”
I glance at Hugo, and the tension in my body coils tighter. “He’s been having a hard time.”
“You mean he does this regularly?”
“Most days,” I say.
I steel myself before touching my fingers to the window to awaken the glass; a digital list of commands glow green, superimposed over the scene beyond. A melodic murmur echoes through the room.
“Good afternoon, General,” says a smooth, disembodied voice. “Play back transcript?”
“Not now,” I respond. “Prepare to end session. Page Samuel. Initiate security protocols for prisoner transfer.”
“Yes, General.”
“Upload today’s transcript to my files upon termination of the session. But first, confirm that you’ve made note of every instance of sound and movement from Rosabelle Wolff today.”
A rhythmic ping.
“Confirmed, General.”
