Gareth cleared his throat, the sound was gravelly. His broad shoulders shifted. "Part of my service," he began, his voice carrying across the lounge with steady cadence of an officer, "was guard duty. Not the glamorous kind you might picture, but watch posts, escorts and corridors. During that time, I regularly oversaw visiting officials from Eirath. Chief Justice Ó Briain among them. Others too, cabinet members, trade representatives. They came often. They wanted new deals."
His eyes darkened, "I can't go into everything, security reasons. It is just a little surprising that he was here since there was very little notice."
The words seemed to hang in the air. Murmurs followed, low at first and then rising in tempo. Tomas Byrne was the first to give voice to the thought that now pulsed on every lip.
"Then it wasn't random," he said sharply. "Not if someone like him was the victim then maybe it was an assassination."
The room shifted like a flock unsettled by thunder. Speculation burst forth in uneven voices, colliding, overlapping. "Why would the Chief Justice have come here all alone?" One demanded. It was odd, Ruben had thought about it briefly.
Why would someone of such high stature come so far from home to another superpower with no security. He ignored Gareth saying that he didn't think he gave notice. Gareth already said that he was out of commission.
"It is odd, isn't it?" Atalanta started. "Ostara had barely begun mourning their Warlord, and by one of the First Children too. So why would he come during such a distressing time under these circumstances?"
The air thickened with these theories. Ruben's gaze flickered towards Fionn. The boy sat small and sunken in the beanbag, his hands balled white-knuckled in the fabric, his face pale and horrified.
"Who cares!" Corbin cut through the noise. His eyes swept the room, hard and unflinching. "Stop talking." There was no point for the silly theories, not for them, they were still just civilians. The man was still dead.
Corbin continued. "That kid is still here. Listening to every damn word."
The weight of his words fell like a hammer. Silence rolled over the room. Tomas was the first to cough, clearing his throat awkwardly, before muttering. "Apologies, lad. I didn't mean anything bad." He faltered, eyes dropping from Fionn's quivering frame.
Gareth followed, his voice was rough but quiet. "I'm sorry too. My tongue ran ahead of me."
But Gareth lingered. His military mind couldn't leave the loose ends dangling. His gaze flickered from Fionn to Ruben and Corbin. "What's the boy doing with you?" His question was blunt, heavy as a stone tossed into still water.
Ruben met his eyes without flinching. "We found him in the room," he said.
The words rippled instantly. Tomas's face fell, paling like a curtain being drawn. Gareth's expression shifted too, dawning realization burning sharp in his gaze. They were both thinking the same thing that the rest of the room would slowly begin to realize.
If Fionn had been in the room, then he might have seen something. He might have watched it happen.
Ruben's gaze slid sideways, catching Sera Weber's eyes across the lounge. Her stare was razor, cold and cutting, and behind it simmered disappointment. He had slipped in information she wanted kept out of it.
Ruben let his mouth slip into a mask of blunder, feigning the grimace of someone who realized too late that he had revealed too much.
But inside, his thoughts cut sharper. He had wanted them to know. Wanted the killer to know. Because now, with Fionn marked as a potential witness, the murderer's hand might be forced.
It was a cruel calculation, one that he did feel bad about, but he believed it would work and he wanted it all to be solved quickly.
The clock was ticking. Less than twenty minutes, he guessed, before Paladin and police cut their way through the mud and storm to arrive in full force.
He and Corbin would be pinned, their names and details as criminals would have already been logged into the special phones that are issued to Paladin. They could not be here when that door opened. He wanted to be gone in five minutes, eight at most.
Which meant baiting the predator into revealing themselves now in the quickest path forward.
"Detective." Corbin's voice broke the stillness. He leaned forward in his chair, impatience was etched into his jaw. "What's taking so long? Aren't you done checking those recordings?"
Sera's arms folded tighter, her composure iron but not unshaken. "I'm trying. But the system isn't cooperating. Whoever set it up didn't make it simple." Her gaze flicked towards the staff. "Who here is good with the technical side of things?"
Annelise's voice was small but steady. "Not me. The person who manages that stuff is not here. He's off until next week."
A ripple of unease moved across the room. Corbin then rose. "Let me have a look."
Sera's eyes snapped to Corbin with suspicion. Corbin only gave a small shrug, his tone casual. "Or better yet, let him." He jerked a thumb toward Ruben. "He's better with computers."
That was a lie, but Ruben felt that Corbin believed in it since he had never really spent time on them and whenever he would, he would just ask Ruben to help him out with stuff that he struggled with.
He can do the basics but nothing more.
Sera Weber's stare lingered, dissecting the offer, weighing trust against necessity. Corbin pressed on, smooth and steady. "We're not suspects. We arrived after the murder, you already confirmed that. So let us help. We all want the same thing, don't we?"
For a long moment the only sound in the room was the wind rattling against the windows. Then, with a faint sigh, Sera relented. "Fine. Both of you."
Ruben and Corbin exchanged the faintest flicker, they could both tell that she really did not want them as involved as they already were.
But Ruben wanted to stick to the plan.
___
The computer's whir was the only sound at first. Ruben leaned close to the screen, his eyes narrowed, as Corbin fast-forwarded the playback at twice the speed. Figures darted across the clear footage but none were near the room they were watching.
The second floor camera rolled first, showing empty corridors, lamps buzzing faintly in their sockets. The occasional staff member passed through the frame, shoulders hunched, movements quick and without weight. Nothing lingered long enough to be strange.
Then they switched to the first floor angles. It was the same, no strange movements.
Ruben's brow furrowed. He slowed the footage, letting it creep frame by frame. "Wait." His voice was low, "Look at this." He tapped a finger against the screen. "It's looping."
Corbin turned sharply. "Looping? What do you mean?"
Ruben didn't tear his eyes away. His voice stayed even. "Watch the clock. At eight minutes, it cuts. Back to where it started. The same man crossing and the same lamp. Then it cuts to a couple hours later when we arrive."
Corbin leaned in to check the numbers. His lips pressed thin. "Then if it was spliced, there might be a deletion file. They may think it's gone, but half the time people forget, deleted files can be recycled." His hands flew across the keyboard, moving with a confidence bred of tinkering in darker corners of systems. He clicked open the archive, expecting to be greeted with the lost files.
But there was nothing.
The emptiness on the screen was louder than any static. Corbin clicked his tongue, sharp, there was a note of irritation cracking the silence. "Clean."
Sera's voice cut from behind them, cold and hinted with disbelief. "How would they have been able to change it so quickly? To splice, delete and cover their tracks so thoroughly, in so little time?"
Ruben thought about it for a moment, pulling silent threads in his mind. Then he straightened slightly, "Well if it really was an assassination, they wouldn't have left it to chance. They could have come prepared. A USB drive to override the system with outside commands. Or it was pre-programmed."
All they'd have to do is take it with them as they were finished.
Sera's face gave nothing away, but her silence was answer enough.
Corbin flipped to another feed, irritation dragging his movements rougher. "Fine. Then let's try again. Maybe the hallways. The camera is outside the room where the computer is kept."
It was kept in one of the floors in the lower room, down the hall from the laundry room.
Corbin switched the feeds again, showing a long stretch of corridor leading toward the security office. The frame was as still as a painting. Nothing of note.
Not a figure, and not a shadow. Just the basement hallway.
Corbin snarled under his breath, a low, feral sound. His patience had worn thin, his jaw taut as stone. "Smart bastard."
Ruben only stared at the stillness. The absence of movement told him more than presence would have. "Smarter yes," he murmured, almost to himself. "Or maybe there's more than one." His voice dropped lower, the whisper heavy as iron. "There's a chance that the killer isn't working alone."
The words seemed to cool in the air. Corbin's head tilted, eyes flashing. "An accomplice?"
Ruben's silence was answer enough.
It was Corbin who broke it, voice shifting to question. "Sera. What about The Stillman? You said something about it being him."
Ruben's head snapped toward her, surprise slicing across his face. The name was foreign to him.
Sera didn't flinch. Her eyes, though, grew sharper. "I don't believe it was him."
Corbin arched a brow. "Why not?"
Her words came later. "The Stillman always leaves photographs. Always. It's his signature. First thing you see when you stumble onto his work is the image of the corpse, posed, stark. He doesn't hide them. He places them so that discovery is inevitable. That way, the shock begins before you even find the body. Consider it… a warning. A grim invitation into his theater."
Ruben's thoughts flashed back, Corbin finding the photographs, the images cold, the timing uncanny. His voice was low so the people below wouldn't hear their conversation "Just like the one you found."
Corbin gave a nod. But Sera shook her head. "No. That photo wasn't laid out so it was easy to see. It wasn't first in sight. Whoever left them wanted us to believe it was him."
Ruben nodded slowly. It made sense. Someone had dressed the stage with false markers, hoping to bend the story in a direction it didn't belong.
Corbin cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. "Then what now? Ruben, can you do anything with this computer?"
Ruben shook his head, frustration flickering behind his eyes. "No. I don't know how to retrieve it back."
The storm outside seemed to push harder at the walls then, rattling the windows with a force that felt almost impatient. Ruben's ears pricked.
He turned, peering down toward the lounge where he was hearing a commotion. Voices floated upward, laced with worry. Benedict Holloway's tremor carried the sharpest. "Where's the boy? Where's young Fionn gone?"