Page 100 of Dominion’s Collar

"I believe that's an inaccurate characterization," he says.

"How so?"

"The configuration was deliberate. The overhead anchor was the primary point, not the wrists. The restriction element was integrated first because it's structurally necessary. You don't build from the extremities inward. You build from the load-bearing point down." His voice is patient. Corrective. A teacher explaining something to a student who doesn't quite understand. "Whoever arranged that room understood exactly what they were doing."

My pen stops moving. In my ear, absolute silence. Then Luc, very quietly: "Got it."

Perpetrator knowledge. The thing Andy said would build a case. Gaudet just handed it to me while correcting my homework.

I should stop. I should close my notebook, thank him for his time, and walk out of here with the recording that will end him.

That would be the smart play. That's what Sebastien's read on Gaudet says to do at this stage. Gaudet has given me enough without realizing he's given me anything.

But I'm Claire's sister. The man who killed her just explained her murder to me like I'd gotten a book report wrong. The discipline that has kept me functional for years cracks. Not visibly. Not in a way that shows on my face. But I ask one more question.

"That level of knowledge is impressive," I say. "For someone who arrived after the fact."

The silence between us changes texture.

Gaudet's eyes lock on mine, and the man looking back at me isn't the mentor, the mediator, the community pillar. It's assessment. Cold, rapid, thorough.

He's calculating.

"You're not writing a book," he says.

"I am writing a book." My voice stays level. My hands stay still. Every cell in my body is screaming to stand up and walk toward the door. The door is behind me. Moving toward it means turning my back. "It's just not the book you expected."

Gaudet stands. The chair doesn't scrape. He rises with a control that makes the movement feel inevitable rather than sudden.

His gaze sweeps the room. The windows, the exits, the ceiling tiles. He's reading the space like Sebastien reads a room. The comparison turns my stomach because the skill is identical even if the purpose is opposite.

"You're wired," he says. Not a question.

"Prosper."

"Stand up."

The earpiece crackles. "Natalie, we're moving." Luc's voice is tight and urgent. "Hold on."

I stand. I pick up my bag. The front door is behind me and I take the first step toward it.

Gaudet's hand closes around my upper arm. The grip is calibrated, just enough force to stop my forward motion without leaving a mark. He knows how hands leave evidence.

"This way," he says, and steers me toward the far wall.

The joint in the wall doesn't register until his free hand presses it and a panel shifts inward. Behind it, a narrow corridor runs into darkness.

The old architecture. Before the renovation. A service passage that vanished from the blueprints when the property was converted.

Gaudet knew it was here because he knows this building from before. Cole's walk-through found every exit on the blueprints. This one isn't on them.

He pushes me through. The panel closes behind us.

My earpiece goes dead. No static. No Luc. Just silence, thick and close, and the corridor is narrow enough that the walls feel like they're pressing inward. Emergency lighting throws a yellow wash across concrete that predates the renovation by decades.

Gaudet releases my arm and positions himself between me and the panel. Between me and the only way back to the room where my recording was running and my team was listening.

"Give me your phone," he says.