“No,” he says gently.
My pulse betrays me, hammering against my ribs.
“You struggle to breathe,” he continues. “Your heart rate is elevated.”
Heat floods my face.
“That’s proximity to a suspected terrorist,” I say sharply.
“No.”
The word is softer than before, but heavier.
“This,” he says, and though he does not move closer, the space between us feels as though it contracts.
My stomach drops.
I refuse to name it.
“This interrogation concerns a bombing,” I say, each word clipped. “Stay on topic.”
“Then stay with it,” he replies evenly.
I inhale slowly, forcing oxygen back into my lungs.
“Do you consent to a full energy scan of your person and vessel.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
“If the results exonerate you.”
“They will.”
“And if they do.”
“Then you will have a larger problem than me.”
The implication threads through my spine like ice.
I step backward toward the door, needing distance. The metal table presses briefly against my thigh before I move around it.
“Why didn’t you run,” I ask before I can stop myself.
He holds my gaze.
“I was under truce,” he says.
“And.”
“I do not break truce.”
The simplicity of that statement unsettles me more than any denial.
I move toward the door panel and trigger release.
Cool corridor air rushes in, carrying the sterile scent of filtered atmosphere and distant ozone.
