LITMIR.BIZ

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“Are you sure I said that?”

      “Yes.”

      “Yes?” He cocks his head. “Yes, you saw me say that with your own eyes?”

      “N-no,” I say quickly, feeling defensive, “but there were loudspeakers—I could hear your voice—”

      He takes a deep breath. “Right; of course.”

      “I did,” I tell him.

      “So after you heard me say that, what happened?”

      I swallow hard. “I had to save the boy. He was going to die. He couldn’t see where he was going and he was going to be impaled by those spikes. I had to pull him into my arms and try to find a way to hold on to him without killing him.”

      A beat of silence.

      “And did you succeed?” Warner asks me.

      “Yes,” I whisper, unable to understand why he’s asking me this when he saw it all happen for himself. “But the boy went limp,” I say. “He was temporarily paralyzed in my arms. And then you hit another switch and the spikes disappeared, and I let him down and he—he started crying again and bumped into my bare legs. And he started screaming. And I . . . I got so mad at you . . .”

      “That you broke through concrete,” Warner says, a faint smile touching his lips. “You broke through a concrete wall just to try and choke me to death.”

      “You deserved it,” I hear myself say. “You deserved worse.”

      “Well,” he sighs. “If I did, in fact, do what you say I did, it certainly sounds like I deserved it.”

      “What do you mean, if you did? I know you did—”

      “Is that right?”

      “Of course it’s right!”

      “Then tell me, love, what happened to the boy?”

      “What?” I freeze; icicles creep up my arms.

      “What happened,” he says, “to that little boy? You say that you set him on the ground. But then you proceeded to break through a concrete wall fitted with a thick, six-foot-wide mirror, with no apparent regard for the toddler you claim was wandering around the room. Don’t you think the poor child would’ve been injured in such a wild, reckless display? My soldiers certainly were. You broke down a wall of concrete, love. You crushed an enormous piece of glass. You did not stop to ascertain where the blocks or the shattered bits had fallen or who they might’ve injured in the process.” He stops. Stares. “Did you?”

      “No,” I gasp, blood draining from my body.

      “So what happened after you walked away?” he asks. “Or do you not remember that part? You turned around and left, just after destroying the room, injuring my men, and tossing me to the floor. You turned around,” he says, “and walked right out.”

      I’m numb now, remembering. It’s true. I did. I didn’t think. I just knew I needed to get out of there as fast as possible. I needed to get away, to clear my head.

      “So what happened to the boy?” Warner insists. “Where was he when you were leaving? Did you see him?” A lift of his eyebrows. “And what about the spikes?” he says. “Did you bother to look closely at the ground to see where they might’ve come from? Or how they might’ve punctured a carpeted floor without causing any damage? Did you feel the surface under your feet to be shredded or uneven?”

      I’m breathing hard now, struggling to stay calm. I can’t tear myself away from his gaze.

      “Juliette, love,” he says softly. “There were no speakers in that room. That room is entirely soundproof, equipped with nothing but sensors and cameras. It is a simulation chamber.”

      “No,” I breathe, refusing to believe. Not wanting to accept that I was wrong, that Warner isn’t the monster I thought he was. He can’t change things now. Can’t confuse me like this. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to work. “That’s not possible—”

      “I am guilty,” he says, “of forcing you to undergo such a cruel simulation. I accept the fault for that, and I’ve already apologized for my actions. I only meant to push you into finally reacting, and I knew that sort of re-creation would quickly trigger something inside of you. But good God, love”—he shakes his head—“you must have an absurdly low opinion of me if you think I would steal someone’s child just to watch you torture it.”

      “It wasn’t real?” I don’t recognize my own raspy, panicked voice. “It wasn’t real ?”

      He offers me a sympathetic smile. “I designed the basic elements of the simulation, but the beauty of the program is that it will evolve and adapt as it processes a soldier’s most visceral responses. We use it to train soldiers who must overcome specific fears or prepare for a particularly sensitive mission. We can re-create almost any environment,” he says. “Even soldiers who know what they’re getting into will forget that they’re performing in a simulation.” He averts his eyes. “I knew it would be terrifying for you, and I did it anyway. And for hurting you, I feel true regret. But no,” he says quietly, meeting my eyes again. “None of it was real. You imagined my voice in that room. You imagined the pain, the sounds, the smells. All of it was in your mind.”

      “I don’t want to believe you,” I say to him, my voice scarcely a whisper.

      He tries to smile. “Why do you think I gave you those clothes?” he asks. “The material of that outfit was lined with a chemical designed to react to the sensors in that room. And the less you’re wearing, the more easily the cameras can track the heat in your body, your movements.” He shakes his head. “I never had a chance to explain what you’d experienced. I wanted to follow you immediately, but I thought I should give you time to collect yourself. It was a stupid decision, on my end.” His jaw tenses. “I waited, and I shouldn’t have. Because when I found you, it was too late. You were ready to jump out a window just to get away from me.”

      “For good reason,” I snap.

      He holds up his hands in surrender.

      “You are a terrible person!” I explode, throwing the rest of the pillows at his face, angry and horrified and humiliated all at once. “Why would you put me through something like that when you know what I’ve been through, you stupid, arrogant—”

      “Juliette, please,” he says, stepping forward, dodging a pillow to reach for my arms. “I am sorry for hurting you, but I really think it was worth—”

      “Don’t touch me!” I jerk away, glaring, clutching the foot of his bed like it might be a weapon. “I should shoot you all over again for doing that to me! I should—I should—”

      “What?” He laughs. “You’re going to throw another pillow at me?”

      I shove him, hard, and when he doesn’t budge, I start throwing punches. I’m hitting his chest, his arms, his stomach, and his legs, anywhere I can reach, wishing more than ever that he weren’t able to absorb my power, that I could actually crush all the bones in his body and make him writhe in pain beneath my hands. “You . . . selfish . . . monster !” I keep throwing poorly aimed fists in his direction, not realizing how much the effort exhausts me, not realizing how quickly the anger dissolves into pain. Suddenly all I want to do is cry. My body is shaking in both relief and terror, finally unshackled from the fear that I’d caused another innocent child some kind of irreparable damage, and simultaneously horrified that Warner would ever force such a terrible thing on me. To help me.

      “I’m so sorry,” he says, stepping closer. “I really, truly am. I didn’t know you then. Not like I do now. I’d never do that to you now.”

      “You don’t know me,” I mumble, wiping away tears. “You think you know me just because you’ve read my journal—you stupid, prying, privacy-stealing asshole—”

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