“Is it?” He picked up one of the wooden animals, turned it over in his hands. A rabbit. One of Emma's rabbits. “You make toys for sick children. Visit hospitals in secret. Skip official engagements to spend time with people no one else remembers. That doesn't sound like someone content to let the system handle everything.”
“There's a difference between carving toys and shooting people with arrows.”
“Is there? Both are about trying to fix what's broken. Both are about giving something to people who have nothing.” He set the rabbit down carefully. “Both require a certain level of skill and dedication.”
I didn't like where this was going. “If you're suggesting?—”
“I'm not suggesting anything. I'm observing.” He moved along the workbench, examining tools with professional interest. “These are quality instruments. Expensive. Well-maintained. You take your craft seriously.”
“Is that a crime?”
“No. But it shows discipline. Patience. The ability to focus on detail work for extended periods.” His eyes met mine. “Similar traits to someone who might make their own arrows, for instance.”
My pulse kicked. I forced myself to stay still. Stay calm. “I make toys, Detective. Not weapons.”
“I know. I've looked into your workshop requisitions. Wood orders. Tool purchases. All legitimate. All accounted for.” He smiled slightly. “Very thorough record-keeping. Your staff is meticulous.”
“They're paid to be.”
“Still. It's impressive.” He moved toward the door, paused. “You know what else is impressive? The vigilante's accuracy. Professional-level archery. Military-grade training, probably. Not the kind of thing you pick up at a weekend course.”
“I wouldn't know. I've never shot a bow in my life.”
The lie tasted bitter. But necessary.
Akintola studied me for a long moment. “Right. Of course you haven't.” He pulled out a small notebook, flipped through pages. “Let me ask you something else, then. These murders. The ones the vigilante commits. What do you think about them?”
“I think murder is murder. Justified or not.”
“Even when the victims are criminals? When they're planning attacks, moving weapons, threatening innocent people?”
“Even then. We have laws for a reason. Courts. Process.”
“Process takes time. People die while we follow procedure.”
“And people die when individuals decide they're judge, jury, and executioner.” I picked up the chisel again, needed something to do with my hands. “The vigilante might think he's helping. But he's just creating more chaos.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I am certain. Because I've seen what happens when people take justice into their own hands. I've seen the collateral damage. The innocent bystanders caught in crossfire. The way violence begets violence until no one remembers what they were fighting for in the first place.”
Akintola tilted his head. “That's... specific.”
Shit. I'd said too much. Let emotion bleed into what should've been detached observation.
“I read,” I said quickly. “History. Philosophy. The same patterns repeat. Vigilantes always think they're different. Special. That their cause justifies their methods. They're always wrong.”
“And yet they keep appearing. Why do you think that is?”
“Because the system fails people. Because justice is slow and imperfect and sometimes the bad guys win.” I set down the chisel with more force than intended. “Because sometimes the only thing standing between innocent people and violence is someone willing to step into the gap, even if it means breaking rules they're supposed to follow.”
Silence.
I'd said too much again. Revealed too much of what I actually thought instead of what I should think.
Akintola was watching me with those careful, assessing eyes. “You sound almost sympathetic.”
“I'm sympathetic to the impulse. Not the execution.” I met his gaze. “Is there a point to this conversation, Detective? Because if you're trying to determine whether I secretly admire vigilantes, the answer is no. I think they're dangerous, misguided, and ultimately counterproductive.”
