Page 114 of The Words Beneath the Noise

I wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that the grief in his eyes meant he understood something about human weakness, about secrets kept not from malice but from fear.

But the notebook was in his hands now. My whole heart, encoded in substitution ciphers I'd thought were unbreakable.

“How long?” I asked. “Until you know?”

“A few days. Perhaps a week.” He stood, moved toward the door. “I'll have someone escort you to your quarters. Try to rest. You look like you haven't slept properly in months.”

“It's hard to sleep when people's lives depend on your work.”

“Yes.” Something flickered in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. The understanding of a man who'd carried the same weight. “It is.”

He opened the door. A guard stood waiting outside.

“Mr Pembroke.” Finch's voice stopped me at the threshold. “For what it's worth, I hope I'm wrong about you. I hope that notebook contains nothing but the private thoughts of a man under too much pressure. I hope that when this is over, you can go back to your work and your friendship with Sergeant Hale and whatever else brings you comfort in this godforsaken war.”

“And if you're right?”

“Then we'll deal with that when we come to it.” His jaw tightened. “But I've been wrong before, Mr Pembroke. About people I trusted. About what they were capable of. So I can't afford to hope too hard. Not until I know for certain.”

Even when hope was the most dangerous thing of all.

I don’t remember getting backto my billet.

One moment I was on the cold ground, breath frosting in the air, the next I was stumbling down the corridor with my shoulders hunched and my gaze fixed on the floorboards. People moved around me in blurred shapes and muted voices. Someonesaid my name once—twice—but I kept going, like if I didn’t stop, none of it would be real yet.

The billet door closed behind me with a soft click that felt too final. I stood there in the small, dim space, staring at my narrow bed, at the folded blankets, at the neat stack of books on the crate that served as a bedside table.

My Black Book wasn’t there.

The absence howled.

I peeled off my jacket with clumsy fingers. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Boots next, laces refusing to cooperate. I nearly fell over wrestling them off, frustration burning hot and useless under my skin. Everything felt wrong. My clothes itched, my skin crawled, the air pressed too close.

Shower. I needed a shower. Needed hot water to scald this day off me, to burn away the feel of Finch’s eyes on my secrets.

The washroom was blessedly empty. I turned the tap as far as it would go, waited for the pipes to groan and shudder to life. When the water thundered down, I stepped under it fully dressed, too tired to bother undressing properly, letting the heat soak through wool and cotton until everything clung heavy and suffocating to my body.

Then, slowly, I stripped—shirt sticking to my skin, trousers peeling away, wool scratching as it slid down my legs. I stood there under the spray, naked and shaking, water beating against my shoulders, my spine, the back of my neck. Tried to breathe with it. In for four. Hold. Out.

Didn’t work. The panic sat like a stone in my throat.

Images chased themselves across my mind. Finch’s pale eyes. His fingers on my notebook. The page where I’d written about the lake, about Tom’s hands on my face, about the way it had felt to be chosen in that frozen silence.

He’d see it. All of it. Even if he didn’t know exactly what it meant, he’d know enough.

“Stop,” I whispered to myself, pressing my palms flat against the cold tiles. “Stop thinking. Stop.”

The water ran hotter. My skin reddened, then stung. I stayed until my legs threatened to give out and the world narrowed to the roar of the pipes and the hammer of my heart.

Eventually I shut it off. Dried myself mechanically. Pulled on clean clothes with fingers that didn’t feel like they belonged to me. When I crawled into bed, the sheets were cold against my overheated skin, and the mound of blankets felt like weight rather than comfort.

Sleep didn’t want me. My mind wouldn’t quiet. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Finch reaching for the notebook, saw his thumb smudge the ink where Bea had written my name.

You’re safe, Artie.

Lie.

I turned onto my side. Onto my back. Curled up tight, then forced myself to uncurl because the tightness made it harder to breathe. The clock in the corridor ticked faintly through the wall, each second a pinprick.