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“She asked me to.” He shrugged and avoided the other man’s eye.

“Ah.” Lincoln nodded but said nothing more.

Graham’s jaw worked, and he pressed his hands against his thighs, steadying himself. “Ah? It’s hardly a revelation.”

“Isn’t it?” Lincoln leaned forward, his voice dropping. "That night cracked you open. It connected you to her. That moment is about truth. About who she is. And who you are when you're with her."

God help me. I can’t do this.

Graham jerked to his feet. "Don't try to make it poetic. A beast acting like a beast hardly seems noteworthy."

"She sat outside your cell all night."

"She shouldn't have."

"But she did." Wallace's voice remained steady. "What does that tell you?"

"That she's stubborn. Reckless."

"Try again."

Graham paced the small room, three steps in one direction, three back. "That she doesn't understand. She thinks she can fix me."

"Graham." Wallace's tone made him stop. "The woman I spoke with tonight doesn't strike me as a fool or a dreamer. She knows exactly what you are."

Graham sank back into his chair, suddenly exhausted beyond measure.

"Tell me about her," Wallace said gently.

"What does this have to do with getting me out of here?"

"Humor me."

Graham stared at his bloodied hands. "She's unexpected. Strong in ways I never anticipated. She walks into chaos and creates order through sheer force of will. She sees people—truly sees them—even when they'd rather remain invisible."

"And how does that make you feel?"

Graham shot him a withering look.

Wallace chuckled. "Professional habit. Allow me to rephrase. What does she mean to you?"

The question—so simple, so damning. He had nothing left to defend himself with. The words sliced into his soul that stood bare and raw after the night’s horrors. He had no detachment, no pretense left.

"Everything," he said, collapsing back into the chair. He leaned forward to cradle his head in hands and spoke to the floor as he studied the muck smeared on his boots. "She means everything. And I don't know how to live with that."

"Most of us don't." Wallace made a brief note in his book, his handwriting cramped and illegible to anyone but himself. “But you may be on your way to sorting that out.”

Graham stared at the wall, breathing through the vulnerability of the moment. "Are you satisfied now? Can we proceed with getting me out of this wretched place?"

Wallace made a few more notes in his book. "Always rushing my process."

"Your chronicles of my madness can wait," Graham snapped.

"Not chronicles. Observations." Wallace checked his pocket watch again. "If I leave now, I can catch Magistrate Gorse before he becomes entangled in today's cases."

Graham straightened, hope flaring. "You believe you can convince him?"

"He’ll be vexed about my interference, but I've been evaluating soldiers with battlefield trauma for fifteen years. My opinion carries considerable weight." Lincoln tucked his notebook away and rose to his feet. "You'll be at Chancery Court this morning."