Or rather, he knows I know something. I’ve known for months. Not because I was looking, but because Ari’s paranoia has rubbed off on me, and now I notice patterns.
Harris disappears some days. He changes before he leaves, and he’s very careful about who sees him go. He’s careful in a way that doesn’t match the persona he performs here. There’s a hotel in town that doesn’t ask many questions. I’ve seen him come and go from the same room more than once.
And not alone.
I never mentioned it. Until now. Still grabbing the front of his shirt, I pull him close so no one else can hear. “I know where you go on weekends,” I murmur into his ear. He freezes, but I don’t pause. “I know the hotel,” I continue quietly. “I know the room you ask for.” His breathing changes; it’s subtle, but there. “And I know the name you give at reception isn’t your real one. I wonder why that is?” There’s no bravado now in his face, just pure calculation.
I let the silence stretch long enough for the implication to strike. Then I release him and step back.
“It’s over,” I tell him, and he looks up at me. I see the pride and humiliation wrestling behind his eyes. He understands exactly what I’m offering. Mutual silence.
“Fine,” he says, standing and straightening his shirt stiffly, gesturing for the others to move. They followwithout a word, and the corridor empties.
I turn to Connor, who is still upright through stubbornness alone. “You’re an idiot,” he says quietly.
“Probably.”
“What did you say to him?” he asks studying me.
“Something that’ll keep him quiet and keep his hands to himself.” He shifts and winces. “How bad is it?” I ask.
“Just bruised,” he says. “Nothing new.” He tries to take a step and nearly doubles over. I catch his arm, wrapping it around my neck, and we start walking down the corridor slowly.
He glances sideways at me. “So,” he says casually, like we’re discussing the weather. “How’s Zakirov?” I pause. “You weren’t exactly subtle about where you were going,” he adds. “Thought I’d ask.”
“He’s good,” I say, huffing out a quiet breath.
He nods slowly. “Yeah?” he asks as we take a few more steps. “You’re still walking straight, so it couldn’t have been that great a holiday.”
I snort. “That’s your metric?”
“Seems reliable.”
“I’ll bear that in mind next time.”
He gives a faint, lopsided grin that immediately tugs at the split in his lip. “Steady on,” he mutters. “You’re glowing. It’s unsettling.”
“I don’t glow.”
“You do. It offends my eyes.”
He leans against his door as we reach it for a second, breathing shallowly. “Right,” he breathes. “Go unpack. Before you start staring wistfully off into the distance.”
“I don’t stare wistfully.”
“You absolutely do.” he argues, pushing off the door. Then he pauses. “Next time,” he adds lightly, “try coming back from holiday without starting a corridor war, yeah?”
“No promises.”
“Idiot,” he says, shaking his head, slipping inside and closing the door. I pick up my bag, head for my room, dump it inside, and then turn straight back around.
Unpacking can wait.
There’s a rhythm to coming back from leave. Check in. Check boards. Check messages. Make sure nothing has gone wrong in your absence.
Comms is halfway down the main corridor past the offices. The door’s propped open already. Inside, one of the lads is at the far console, headset half-on, and scribbling something down. He glances up when I enter. I nod toward the empty terminal. He shrugs and goes back to whatever he’s logging.
I sit down and log into the system.
