I nod toward the folder. “Found something in the seal log that doesn’t make sense. I want your read.”
She walks to the table, picks up the report, and reads in silence. I watch her fingers skim the paper, watch the faint tension in her jaw when she catches the irregularity.
“This was re-stamped twice,” she says. “But there’s no record of a middle transit stop. That only happens if the driver swapped cabs mid-route or someone replaced the crate without changing the ID.”
She doesn’t look at me as she says it. Her voice stays calm. Her eyes stay on the paper. I step closer.
“Explain the route logic,” I say.
She does. She outlines how the lane’s too short for fuel shifts, how the manifest doesn’t align with the dispatch window, how the barcode tags don’t match the timestamp from the reader logs.
I keep pushing. I ask three more questions. She answers all of them with certainty.
“You’re too calm,” I say.
She finally looks up. “Should I be nervous?”
“I expected you to be.”
“I don’t react when I’m being watched.”
“That’s a skill,” I say.
“It’s a necessity,” she answers.
We’re close now. No desk between us. No distance either. She keeps her eyes on mine, and I study her face for any flicker of guilt, any sign she’s lying. There’s none. Just precision.
I reach past her and flip the next page. “And this line?”
She glances down. “That’s forged. Not by us. The ink’s different.”
She catches it fast. I wonder what else she’s seen that she hasn’t said out loud.
“Who are you really?” I ask.
Her expression shifts, but only slightly. “The analyst you hired.”
“That’s not the truth.”
“It’s close enough,” she says.
I step closer, just a fraction. She doesn’t move back. Her mouth tightens for half a second, and then she smooths it. “I watched you today,” I say with a hint of roughness slipping into my voice. “You didn’t blink when I walked in with blood on my hands.”
“Would blinking have helped?”
“You’re not normal.”
“Neither are you.”
Her voice doesn’t quaver, but her pulse kicks at the side of her neck again, same as it did that first morning. I see it. I know she knows I see it.
She closes the folder and sets it back on the table. “You have what you needed. I’ll go.”
She turns to leave. I don’t let her.
My hand closes around her arm just above the elbow. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Let go,” she quietly says.