The Interrogation

Caleb zip-tied her to the sturdy oak chair in the center of the living room. He pulled the curtains tight. He lit a kerosene lamp, keeping the light low.

He paced in front of her, his anger warring with confusion.

"Five years," Caleb said, stopping in front of her. "Five years I sat in that cell. And you’ve been here? Playing house?"

Lena tugged at the plastic ties. Her wrists were already chafed. "I don't know what you're talking about. What cell? Who are you?"

"Stop it!" Caleb slammed his hand on the table. The noise made her flinch violently. "Drop the cover. It’s me. Caleb."

He leaned in close, searching her face for a crack in the mask. "The Hammer. Remember? Istanbul? The extraction?"

Lena shook her head frantically. "I’ve never been to Istanbul. I’ve lived here for... for as long as I can remember."

"And how long is that?"

"Five years," she whispered.

Caleb narrowed his eyes. "And before that?"

Lena opened her mouth, then closed it. A look of genuine pain crossed her face. She squeezed her eyes shut. "I... I was in a car accident. Seattle. I hit my head. I don't remember before."

"Convenient," Caleb scoffed. "Amnesia. The oldest lie in the book."

"It’s not a lie!" She shouted, a flash of fire returning to her eyes. "I woke up in a hospital. My name is Lena Vance. That’s what my ID says. That’s what the doctors told me. I came here to recover. To be safe."

"Safe from what?"

"I don't know!" Her voice broke. "I just have this feeling... that someone is coming. Someone bad."

She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. "Are you him? Are you the bad thing?"

Caleb stared at her. He felt the foundation of his hatred cracking. He was an expert in reading people. He knew micro-expressions, tells, the subtle shifts in posture that signaled a lie.

She wasn't lying.

Or she was the greatest actress who ever lived.

"Where is the ledger?" Caleb asked quietly.

"What ledger? I don't have any money. I chop wood for the neighbors. I sell sketches online."

Caleb turned away, running a hand through his hair. He felt like a fool. He had come here for a reckoning, for a cathartic explosion of violence and truth. Instead, he was interrogating a ghost.

He began to tear the cabin apart.

He ripped the books off the shelves. He pulled up the rugs. He smashed the vases.

"Please," Lena cried softly. "Please stop."

Caleb ignored her. He went to the bedroom. He pulled the mattress off the frame. Nothing.

He knelt down and examined the floorboards. One board, under the bed, had scratch marks on the screw heads.

He pulled his tactical knife and unscrewed the board.

Underneath, nestled in the insulation, was a waterproof Pelican case.

"You don't have anything, huh?" Caleb walked back into the living room, holding the case up. "Then what is this?"

Lena stared at it. "I... I’ve never seen that before."

Caleb popped the latches.

Inside, there was no money. No ledger. No hard drive.

There was only a file folder. Thick. Stamped with a red seal: *CLASSIFIED.*

And a single word written in black marker across the front: LETHE.