Chapter 4

Irene did not remember falling asleep.

She woke up on the couch after midnight; with a blanket she didn't remember pulling out over her legs and the sound of water running in the kitchen. For a second, still half asleep, she forgot why there was a man in her apartment at that hour. Then he remembered everything at once: the photograph, the threat, Castel's voice saying "we'll go back to this" as if it were a promise.

He sat up slowly. The letter was no longer on the coffee table.

"I kept it," Castel said, without her asking, appearing on the kitchen threshold with two cups. In a bag. If this goes further, I want there to be a chain of custody, even if it is unofficial.

"Coffee at one o'clock in the morning?"

"Tea." The coffee would have kept you awake, and you need to sleep. He handed her a cup and sat down at the other end of the sofa, leaving a calculated distance between them that Irene found almost comical, considering what they had said to each other hours before in her office.

"Detective, a few hours ago you told me that I should decide if I want to catch him or sleep with him. He doesn't seem like the kind of man who then sits on the other side of the sofa to drink tea.

"I'm not that kind of man. Castel took a sip, looking over the rim of the cup, a gesture that was already beginning to feel familiar. I'm the kind of man who knows that if this happens tonight, with you scared and me here of my own accord, then neither of us will know if it was desire or survival. And I want that when it happens, if it happens, there is no doubt.

The sincerity of the answer disarmed her more than any physical breakthrough would have. Irene put the cup down on the table and turned to him, her legs bent under her body, studying him with the same clinical attention she reserved for her subjects in profile, although she knew—or suspected—that with Castel that professional distance was no longer of any use to her.

"That's the most careful thing you've said to me since I've known you.

"I'm not careful. I'm calculating. There is a difference. He put down the cup too, and for the first time that night he looked truly tired, his control mask slightly cracked. I've been in Internal Affairs for thirteen years, Irene. I learned that people who act on impulse make mistakes that can be exploited. I don't make those mistakes. Not even now.

"Not even with this?" She pointed to the space between them, the tension that was still there despite the physical distance.

"Especially with this.

They were silent for a moment, the kind of silence that would otherwise have been awkward but felt like a natural extension of the conversation between them. Outside, a car drove slowly down the street and Irene noticed Castel turning his head toward the window, an almost imperceptible reflection, the vigilance that never quite turned off.

—Do you think it's someone from the consulting firm? she asked, resuming safer ground. The letters have details that only someone with access to my files could know.

—It's a possibility. Castel ran a hand over his jaw, thoughtful. Who else works with you?

"Ivo." My assistant. He has been with me for a year and a half, he organizes the files, schedules the consultations. Irene frowned, feeling the awkwardness of saying the name out loud in that context. But it is impossible. It is... clumsy. Nervous. He does not fit the profile of someone who plans rituals of this level.

"Sometimes that's exactly the façade that works. Castel didn't look at her when he said it, he had his eyes fixed on some point on the wall, as if he were putting together a mental map. People who plan with this level of control are usually very good at hiding that control behind a harmless image. How long ago did you hire him?

"Eighteen months."

—Before or after meeting Miranda as a patient?

The question felt like a bucket of cold water. Irene did the math in her mind, and the answer chilled her chest.

"Before. Ivo started working with me two months before Miranda started therapy.

Castel didn't say anything right away. She just nodded slowly, the kind of gesture Irene recognized from her own profile sessions: the silent jotting down of a piece of information that changed the entire map of the case.

"Tomorrow, I want to see your complete work history. References, previous address, everything. He stood up, and for a moment looked like he was going to leave, but instead he walked to the window and drew the curtain slightly, scanning the street with a quick, professional glance. And I want you to act with him exactly as always. No weird questions, no sudden distance.

"Do you think it's him?"

"I think he's someone I trust enough not to be suspicious. That, for now, is enough to pay attention to it. He turned to her, and the professional hardness of his face thinned just enough for Irene to notice the change. Sleep, Irene. I stay awake.

"All night?"

"All night.

She should have protested, told him that it was not necessary, that she was an adult woman capable of taking care of herself. Instead, he got up from the couch, walked to his room, and paused in the doorway long enough to look back.

"Castel."

He looked up.

"Thank you.

It was not a statement laden with desire, not that time. It was something simpler and, in some ways, more dangerous: genuine gratitude, the kind of feeling that quietly builds up and is then much harder to undo than physical attraction.

Castel did not respond with words. He just nodded, and stood there, standing by the window, watching an empty street while Irene closed her bedroom door.