Her grip tightened on the pen.
“You sleep restlessly,” he went on, conversational now, as if discussing weather. “You grind your teeth.” Her control slipped. She hated that he knew.
“You stopped shaking after the third hour,” he added. “That’s when you finally settled.”
She swallowed.
“Where is Lauren?” she asked.
“You’re asking the wrong question.”
Her pulse jumped, sharp and hot.
“What did you do to her?” she demanded.
A softer tone now. Almost patient.
“Lauren wrote beautifully when she stopped trying to leave.”
Sara’s hand trembled once. She pressed it flat to the page.
“You’re lying,” she said.
“I’m precise.”
The word settled in the room like weight.
“She was here,” Sara said. “What have you done with her?”
“You’re projecting,” he said gently. “Fear does that. It makes you rush to conclusions.”
Her throat burned.
“You’re not in danger,” he continued. “Not if you listen. Not if you work.”
“And if I don’t?”
Another pause. Shorter this time.
“Then the room becomes less comfortable.”
“No chair,” he said mildly. “No light. No sound except the clock. You read her words—you know how it works.”
Sara closed her eyes for half a second. When she opened them, the page was still there. Lauren’s handwriting still real. Still proof.
“You can leave this room,” he said. “Just not yet.”
She lifted her chin, eyes on the blank page.
“You made a mistake,” she said. “You took a deputy. You put me where I can document you. Every habit. Every pattern.”
A sigh.
“That’s exactly why you’re here.”
Static whispered. The sound cut clean.
Silence returned.
