Page 208 of Somno Slave

I scream. The sound rips itself out of me raw enough to burn my throat open. My whole body convulses against the chair. The restraints shriek under the force of it.

“She needs to know the truth!” Sean spits.

“But Peter said—” Mike starts weakly.

“I don’t give a fuck what Peter said!” Sean roars. Spit flashes from his mouth. “This has gone too far. She’s gone too far.”

“Enough!” Peter’s voice explodes through the speaker system hard enough to rattle the glass. The feedback screams afterwards in long violent bursts that stab straight through my skull.

Silence crashes down after it.

Peter braces both hands against the desk. His head lowers for a second like the weight of it all is physically crushing him. When he finally looks up again, his eyes find mine immediately.

I stop breathing. Because I know that look. I’ve seen it before. Doctors give it to terminal patients before they tell them there’s nothing left to save.

“Sean’s right,” Peter says quietly. The sentence slides into me so slowly I feel every piece of it cutting on the way down.

My mouth parts soundlessly.

“No,” I whisper.

“This has gone on too long.” His voice roughens slightly. “Far too long.”

“Peter?” My voice breaks apart around his name.

He drags a hand slowly down his face. His wedding ring catches the light briefly before disappearing again. When his hand drops, something in him looks colder.

“You built this case around the murders.” The words hit like blunt force trauma.

“We went along with it at first because we thought if we contained the delusion, eventually you’d break or confess.” He swallows hard. “You made him silent in the beginning. That made it easier.”

I stare at him.

My pulse is so violent now I can barely hear properly around it.

“You wrote him into the system, Rheda.”

My breathing turns shallow instantly.

“No.”

His eyes don’t leave mine. “You wrote hundreds and hundreds of pages about Deogal Attor.”

The name hits me like something alive. And suddenly I can see it.

Paper. Stacks of it. My handwriting spiralling harder and harder across page after page after page. Ink stains along the side of my hand. Cold coffee beside monitor light at three in the morning.

Deogal.

Deogal.

Deogal.

My stomach drops so violently I think I might black out.

“No,” I whisper again, but it sounds weaker now.

Because somewhere deep underneath the panic, something truly horrific finally starts opening its eyes.