In Death 30 - Fantasy in Death

this.”
    “That’s right, and you’ve admitted to creating the program, to giving both Bart and Cilla the discs without informing them of the augmentation or the risks.”
    “I didn’t make them play. I didn’t—”
    “You keep going down that road,” Eve advised. “It’s going to dead-end on you. The PA’s going to have a field day on charges. We’ll say Murder One on Bart, then the Assault with Intent on a police officer and a duly authorized expert consultant, civilian, Attempted Murder on Cilla, various and sundry cyber crimes.”
    “I didn’t kill anybody!” he shouted. “They lost the game.”
    “Your game,” Eve said. “Your rules. Your play. You’re going to be a very, very old man if and when you get out of that cage, Var—a cage where you’ll be banned from the use of any electronics. No more games for you, you fucker.”
    “This is whack.” He looked at Peabody. “You know this is whack. You get it.”
    “Yeah, I get it. So let me put it this way, just to play the same theme as my partner. Game over, fucker. You lose.”
    Face cold, eyes flat, Peabody got to her feet. “I’ll take him through, Dallas. McNab and I will take him through.”
    “Okay.” She sat now, suddenly and completely exhausted. “Okay. Peabody? Good work.”
    “This isn’t fair,” Var protested. “It’s just another cheat. You can’t put me away for this,” he continued as Peabody hauled him up. “I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t there. It’s their own fault.”
    Eve closed her eyes as his voice, and the tears in it, faded away.
    He believed it, she thought, at least in some small part of his mind. He’d done nothing more than provide, so couldn’t be held responsible for the results. And maybe his lawyers, when he got them, would play that one, but she had faith in Reo, and the system.
    She had to.
    She opened her eyes when Roarke came in and closed the door. He sat across from her, kept those wild blue eyes on hers.
    “Been a while since I’ve been in the box with a cop.”
    “Do you want me to read you your rights?”
    “I’ll waive that. You let Peabody lead him along. She did well.”
    “He believes some of that bullshit, enough of it to convince himself it’s Bart’s own fault he’s dead, Cill’s problem she’s in a coma.” Her heart squeezed, hard, before she finished the thought. “If that knife had gone into you a couple inches over, it’d be your own fault.”
    “Going by that logic, it would be my own agility and skill that has me sitting here now, looking at you. You’re tired, Lieutenant, and you’re sad, and a bit beaten up as well.”
    “I want to be pissed, and satisfied. I’ll get around to it. They thought he was their friend, and they were his. He used them, sucked what he wanted from them, and gave back only what he wanted to spare, that was—in turn—useful to him. They never really meant anything to him, in all those years they worked together, spent together.”
    She drew a breath, let it out. “No, worse, they were just a means to an end, just levels to get through to the win. It made me think about what’s involved in friendships and partnerships. Relationships. I could try to be a better friend, a better partner, but I’ll probably forget.”
    “From where I sit you do quite well enough, but I’m happy to remind you if you like.”
    “Roarke.” She reached over the table, took his hands. “I thought I understood, when Coltraine went down, I thought I understood what you deal with because of what I do. What I am. But I was wrong. And tonight . . . It was so fast. Blasting that damn room to pieces trying to find the controls. And I did. I did, but seconds too late. In seconds I saw that knife go into you, and the world just stopped. It just ended.”
    “But it didn’t.” He squeezed her hands. “And here we are.”
    “I did okay before you—without you. I was doing just fine. Christ knows you were doing just fine before me.”
    “I don’t want just fine. Do you?”
    She shook her head. “I mean, it was okay. When you don’t know what you can have, you do okay with what you’ve got. But now I know, and I don’t think I can get through without you. I wouldn’t be just fine, or okay, or anywhere close to it. I don’t know how people get through. All the people left behind, the ones I have to look in the eye and say he’s gone or she’s gone. I don’t know how they take the next breath.”
    “Isn’t that why, in a very real