Page 187 of Somno Slave
His eyes lift to Peter. “I don’t trust her judgment anymore.”
My stomach drops.
Peter’s expression doesn’t change, but I see the tension in his jaw.
“She’s too close,” Harris continues. “Whether that’s manipulation, compromised objectivity, or something she hasn’t admitted yet, I don’t particularly care. The result is the same.”
Heat crawls up my throat. “I am not compromised.”
Harris looks at me then. “That confidence is usually what makes people dangerous, Doctor Ainsley.”
I feel my nails pressing into my palm beneath the table.
Peter exhales slowly. “Pulling her now creates more problems than it solves.”
Harris says nothing.
Peter continues, harder this time. “She knows the case. She knows his patterns. Replacing her this close to sentencing would raise questions we do not have time to answer.”
There is a devastating pause before his voice drops lower. “And if thereissomething there, she is more useful inside the room than outside it.”
The words hit almost as hard as Harris’s.
Not trusted.Useful.
Harris studies me for a moment too long.
“Then she stays,” he says. “But understand this—I am not keeping you on this case because I believe you are objective. I’m keeping you there because right now, removing you is inconvenient.”
The humiliation burns so hot it almost steadies me.
His voice stays calm. “If he is using you, I will know. If you are protecting him, I will know. And if I decide you are the greater liability...”
He lets the sentence die there. He doesn’t need to finish it.
Peter stands. The chair legs drag quietly against the floor, the sound controlled but deliberate enough to mark the end of the meeting. Harris rises a second later, slower, his movements just as measured as everything else about him.
Peter steps forward first. They shake hands.
“Friday, then,” Peter says too sharply.
Harris nods. “Friday.”
He releases his hand, turns. The guards follow him out of the room.
Peter watches them leave, staring at the closed door, tight enough to hurt just looking at it.
Then he faces me.
“Peter—” I start.
“You’re off rotation for the rest of the day.”
“But—”
“Go home.”
It feels like I’ve been punched in the chest. I want to protest but nothing useful comes to mind. I dip my head because anything else would sound like pleading.
