I brace myself, waiting for the violence to erupt.
Instead, the moment passes, and she straightens. I’m left tense, watching her, waiting for her to snap like Mori did. She gazes through me, her pupils still dilated—and then, giving herself an odd little shake, she turns away and reaches for a stack of files on her desk, walking sedately around to her chair.
I stare as she goes back to work, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it never does. Though her pupils still seem unusually large, the rest of her body language and movements are utterly normal. More normal, in fact, than she was acting when I first stepped into her office.
“S-sir?”
She looks up, blinking in surprise. “Captain,” she says mildly. “I didn’t notice you come in. How can I help you?”
It’s like a blow to the gut, and I’m left searching for words, floundering for understanding. “Sir, I came in here to speak with you. You were telling me about the medical records. About LaRoux Industries.”
“I was?” She frowns at me, reaching up to neatly tuck a lock of hair into place. A habitual, familiar gesture I recognize, but a tad too jerky. Just a little bit wrong. “That doesn’t sound right.”
“Sir, the records—the facility to the east—”
“I have a lot of paperwork here, Captain,” she says gently. “Can it wait?”
If I hadn’t just seen her ten minutes ago, I’m not sure I’d be able to tell anything was wrong. But looking at her now, I can see it—little signs, here and there. All her gestures are right, the inflection in her voice, her turn of phrase. But it’s all muted. Muffled. It’s like she’s herself, but somehow…less.
“Yes, sir,” I stammer, backing toward the doorway. “I’ll—thank you, sir.”
She doesn’t look up as I salute and hurry through the door.
It’s all I can do to walk back toward the other side of the base and not run; it’s all I can do not to find the nearest shuttle and get as far away as I can from this place.
I don’t know why LaRoux Industries is here on Avon. I don’t know why my commander was being paid to watch me. But whoever she really was behind the bribes and the guilt, that person is gone now. Because the thing that just politely showed me the door—that wasn’t Commander Towers.
I intended to go look for Merendsen and tell him what I heard so we can try to put the pieces together. Instead I find myself heading for Molly’s. With personnel on duty around the clock, it’s always open. I try telling myself it’s because I want the comfort of a crowd, but I know that’s not why I’m going there. I try telling myself it’s because I want Flynn’s input on what’s going on, hoping he has some rational explanation for what I saw.
But I know the real reason my feet are taking me his way, and I’m not proud. I’m terrified, and for the first time since I was eight years old, I just want someone to tell me it’s going to be okay.
I’m halfway there, my thoughts whirling, my eyes blurring with exhaustion and fear, when my nose starts burning; I recognize the choking, acrid smell of smoke. Something, somewhere, is on fire.
My head snaps up. I can see thick black smoke billowing up in the distance, and automatically I break into a sprint. It could be any number of buildings over on that side of the base; there are a couple barracks there, a few supply sheds, even the munitions depot. But disastrous as that would be, somehow I know it’s not.
God, no. Please no.
I’m barely aware of the distance elapsing between me and Molly’s—it’s not even a shock when I burst out from between two barracks to see the bar in flames. I keep running, stopped only when someone grabs my jacket and hauls me back, my momentum knocking me to the ground.
Scrambling in the mud to find my feet again, I’m lurching toward the burning bar when those same arms grab hold of me again.
“Chase!” shouts a dim voice in my ear. “You can’t go in there!”
“There could be people in there!” I scream, my voice breaking as I struggle to get free.
“If they are, they’re dead, and you can’t help them!” It’s Captain Biltmore, and he’s not letting me go. “Get ahold of yourself, Captain!” he snaps.
When he lets go of me I fall again, and this time it’s enough to jar me free of my desperate need to get inside. I stare at the flames, my thoughts grinding to a halt. There’s no sign of Flynn anywhere. I can’t think, can’t feel. There’s no room for grief—I don’t understand it yet, can’t accept it. Not like this.