Her hair, finally loose, fell around her shoulders. The cream pajamas fit the way he’d imagined. She was strong even in stillness; defiance buzzed off her. Sara had trembled. Lauren had folded.
Tessa glared at the blank page as if she could burn through it.
“Fight,” he murmured. “It won’t change the ending.”
He watched as she wrote something short—three, four words—and then slashed through them so hard the nib tore the paper.
He smiled.
He sat at his own desk, not the one in her room. This one was walnut, polished, the surface bare except for his laptop, a legal pad, and a fountain pen.
He picked up the pen and wrote her name in the margin.
Tessa Quinn — still resisting assignment.
On the screen, she shifted, restless. Looked up toward the corner where the camera lived.
Close.
She was close.
Instinct he’d expected.
Scout Wilson had chosen well. A good partner. A better story.
He flipped back a page in his notes.
Lauren: compliant, romantic, fragile under humiliation.
Sara: analytic, mapping, driven by responsibility.
Tessa: tactical, confrontational, refusal of the victim role.
They weren’t interchangeable. Most people lived half-written—false starts, abandoned drafts.
If she refused to finish hers, he would finish it for her.
She stood and paced the rug. Checked the bookshelf. The fridge. The skylights. The door.
Always the door.
Her mouth moved. He didn’t need the audio.
“Not yet,” he said softly. “You’ll earn your answers.”
He checked the log on his laptop.
Water: 6:10 p.m.
Food: 6:22 p.m.
Sedative dose: stable.
Sharp enough to fight. Not sharp enough to win.
His thumb tapped the pen once, then again, against the pad.
An old memory surfaced.
