The name didn't disappear when I blinked.
I stared at the screen, waiting for my brain to reject it the way it rejects nightmares when you wake up too fast. But the letters stayed sharp. Clean. Unapologetic.
I felt something hollow out inside me.
"No," I said again, this time louder, as if volume alone could bend reality. "That's wrong."
The woman didn't respond. She never rushed moments like this. She understood shock the way surgeons understand pressure points, where to apply it, how long to hold.
I looked back at the screen.
The evidence stacked neatly beneath the name. Dates. Locations. Patterns that only made sense once you stopped wanting them not to. I recognized some of them instantly. Others clicked together slowly, painfully, like bones setting without anesthesia.
My chest felt tight. Breathing became work.
"You manipulated this," I said hoarsely. "You made it look like...."
"Like what?" she asked calmly. "Like someone you trust made choices you didn't want to see?"
I shook my head hard. "They wouldn't. They couldn't."
"You said the same thing about him," she reminded me.
That landed harder than anything else she'd said.
I pressed my palms flat against the table, grounding myself in the cold surface. "You're confusing proximity with guilt."
She leaned back slightly. "And you're confusing comfort with innocence."
The screen shifted.
A video clip began to play.
Grainy. Distant. The kind of footage meant to be ignored unless you knew exactly when to look. The timestamp glowed in the corner.
I recognized the date.
My stomach dropped.
"That's impossible," I whispered. "I was with them that night."
"Were you?" she asked.
The footage zoomed in.
A figure moved through the frame, partially obscured. The camera angle was poor, but the posture, God, the posture, I knew it the way you know a loved one's knock on the door.
Slow. Careful. Familiar.
My vision blurred.
I hadn't just missed this.
I had overwritten it.
Memory is flexible like that. It smooths edges. Edits scenes. Protects us from truths we aren't ready to hold.
"You see now," the woman said quietly.
"No," I snapped, anger flaring sharp and sudden. "I see what you want me to see."
Her gaze hardened slightly. "Then explain the transaction records."
The screen changed again.
Numbers scrolled past. Transfers layered over each other. Small amounts at first. Then larger. Strategic.
"You think people always get paid with cash?" she continued. "Sometimes they're paid with access. With timing. With silence."
My throat burned.
"Why are you showing me this?" I asked. "If this is real, you don't need me."
She leaned forward. "Because we need confirmation."
"From me?"
"From someone who knows the difference between coincidence and character."
I laughed, the sound breaking strangely in my chest. "You're asking me to judge someone I love."
"Yes," she said simply.
The screen flickered again.
Tara reappeared.
She was pacing now, running her hands through her hair, breathing unevenly. She looked smaller than before. Fractured.
I felt something tear inside me.
"Stop," I said. "Leave her out of this."
"She's already in it," the woman replied. "You brought her with you."
"That's not fair."
"No," she agreed. "But it's accurate."
My phone buzzed.
Unknown: You're hesitating.
I didn't reply.
Unknown: That usually means the truth is close.
I stared at Tara on the screen. The way she hugged herself like she was cold. The way she glanced at the door every few seconds.
"She doesn't know," I said.
"She suspects," the woman corrected. "Fear is rarely blind."
I swallowed hard. "If I do this… if I confirm this… there's no going back."
"No," she said. "There isn't."
The word echoed in my chest.
I had thought crossing lines would feel dramatic. Loud. Like a moment you could mark and mourn.
Instead, it felt quiet.
Administrative.
Like signing something you hadn't finished reading.
"What happens to them?" I asked.
She paused. "That depends on what you tell us."
"And Tara?"
"She remains safe," the woman said carefully, "as long as you remain useful."
My hands curled into fists again.
"You're not offering justice," I said. "You're offering control."
She didn't deny it.
I closed my eyes.
I saw flashes of the past, laughing conversations, shared secrets, moments I had never questioned because trust made them feel harmless.
I wondered how many warning signs I'd ignored because they were inconvenient.
"Show me the rest," I said quietly.
The woman nodded.
The screen filled with more footage. More records. More moments that shifted meaning the longer I looked.
A meeting that had once seemed accidental.
A message I'd brushed off as nothing.
A delay that had felt unimportant at the time.
Patterns emerged.
And with them, understanding.
My heart ached.
Not because I was wrong.
But because part of me had always known something was off, and I had chosen not to see it.
"I need time," I said.
"You don't have it," she replied.
The screen changed one final time.
A live feed.
My breath caught painfully in my throat.
The person I loved stood alone now, their phone pressed to their ear, their expression tense. They were listening to someone speak.
Someone I couldn't hear.
"Who are they talking to?" I asked.
The woman didn't answer.
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown: Decide.
I felt dizzy.
"If I confirm this," I said, voice trembling, "you take them."
"Yes."
"And if I don't?"
She turned the clipboard toward me.
A new name was highlighted.
Tara's.
My vision swam.
"You're forcing me," I whispered.
"No," she said calmly. "We're revealing you."
The room felt like it was closing in.
I thought of all the versions of myself that had led here. The girl who believed loyalty was protection. The woman who thought silence was neutral.
They felt very far away now.
My phone vibrated one last time.
Unknown: This is where your story changes.
I looked at the screen.
At the person who trusted me.
At Tara, shaking and afraid.
At the name I could no longer deny.
My mouth opened.
And the words that came out would decide everything
Every secret has a cost.
And every choice leaves a mark.
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