I glance up at him then, trying to read his face.
He’s already frowning. Deeply. Focused. Like he’s reconstructing every second I just described.
“What?” I ask quietly.
Because something about his expression has shifted.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“You said you were speaking to a woman when it started,” he says.
“Yes….”
His gaze doesn’t move from mine.
“There was no one beside you when I got to you,” he says flatly.
I blink. “What?”
“I saw you from across the room,” he continues, voice tighter now. “You were alone.”
The words don’t make sense at first.
They sit there, refusing to align with what I remember.
“That’s not—” I start. Then stop.
Because I remember her.
I remember her voice. Her questions. Her laughter.
I remember not being alone.
My chest tightens again, but not like before. This is different.
This is doubt.
“No,” I say quietly. “She was there. We spoke the whole time. She never left. Elise. That’s what her name was.”
Timofey studies me for a long moment.
Not doubting me.
Measuring the certainty in my voice.
Then he exhales slowly through his nose. Controlled.
“It’s probably a fake name,” he says finally. “And a planted interaction.”
My throat feels tight. “Planted?”
“Yes,” he replies. “To distract you. To get close enough for this.”
He pauses.
“I’ll look into her. Every staff member. Every guest. Every movement near you tonight.”
His hand shifts slightly at my back again. Grounding. Anchoring.
