Chapter 263: The Interrogation
A slow smirk tugged at Fitzgerald’s lips.
His eyes swept over Catherine with quiet calculation.
She was tall for a woman, but still several inches shorter than him. Lean. Strong. Around a hundred and thirty-five pounds, perhaps. The pistol aimed steadily at his chest complicated things, but not enough to make escape impossible. If he lunged first and shoved her hard enough, the muzzle would veer off course. Even if she fired, the bullet probably wouldn’t strike anything immediately fatal.
He could survive.
He had already mapped out half a dozen ways to get out of this room before either of them spoke another word.
But...
*Click*
He could hear her turning off the safety.
His gaze lingered on her face.
Those emerald eyes never wavered. Her lips were pressed into a firm line, every muscle in her body coiled with absolute resolve.
She wasn’t threatening him. She had already accepted pulling the trigger if necessary.
Something stirred inside him. Not fear. Curiosity.
He had spent his entire life studying people, reducing them into predictable equations, watching them break under pressure or betray themselves with a twitch, a glance, a hesitation.
Catherine Preston...
She had willingly walked into Dorian Blackwood’s mansion, smiled at a man who had tried to murder her, and somehow managed to manipulate him without exposing herself.
That wasn’t ordinary. That bordered on extraordinary.
His pulse quickened.
Interesting.
Without protest, he followed the subtle direction of her gun. She led him through a quiet corridor before pushing open the door to an unused consultation room. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead as the door clicked shut behind them.
"Sit."
Her voice carried no unnecessary force.
It didn’t need to.
Fitzgerald lowered himself into the chair, never taking his eyes off her.
"And don’t make any rash movements," Catherine continued, stepping farther into the room. "You might forget that your bodyguards aren’t here to do your dirty work for you. People like us rely on our own hands."
With one practiced motion, she raised the pistol until the barrel rested directly over his heart.
"One of the first rules of gun safety," she said, almost pleasantly, "is never to point a gun at something you aren’t willing to obliterate."
Fitzgerald simply watched her.
Death had never frightened him. If anything fascinated him enough, he pursued it without considering the consequences.
And Catherine Preston fascinated him.
She wasn’t bluffing. Every word she spoke carried intent. Every movement had purpose.
Oddly enough... That made her even more interesting.
He had already decided Samantha would not cry because of Catherine ever again. Whether the email had reached Dorian or not no longer mattered as much as it had a few minutes earlier.
His priorities had shifted.
"So..." Catherine said, leaning casually against the edge of the examination table without lowering the gun. She tilted her head ever so slightly, studying him. "First things first."
Her gaze settled on the brim of his cowboy hat.
"Take it off."
She wanted to see him. Not the disguise, but the man beneath it.
She had read every psychological assessment she could obtain about Fitzgerald Rathbourne. Diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder. Highly intelligent. Exceptionally manipulative. Limited emotional affect.
Paper, however, was paper.
She trusted eyes far more than reports. Eyes revealed what clinical notes never could.
A faint chuckle escaped Fitzgerald.
Wordlessly, he reached up and removed the hat.
"What do you know?" Catherine asked.
He leaned back comfortably.
"You’re a remarkably curious woman, Miss Preston."
"What do you know?"
Her voice became quieter. Colder. Far more dangerous than if she’d shouted.
Most people would’ve shown at least a flicker of fear with a loaded pistol aimed squarely at their chest. Fitzgerald found himself enjoying the exchange instead.
He’d watched enough yakuza films to recognize the archetype. The widow who inherited the syndicate after her husband’s death. Calm and merciless... Held together only by vengeance.
Except Catherine wasn’t a character on a screen. She was standing barely six feet away from him, real and alive.
"I know Maximilian Whitmore is alive."
For the first time, he noticed the smallest tremor pass through the barrel of the pistol. Her finger tightened around the trigger. He smiled almost imperceptibly.
"Well... not alive alive," he corrected. "But alive enough that there wasn’t a burial."
His blue eyes remained fixed on hers.
"...and there isn’t a death certificate."
A quiet scoff escaped Catherine.
There it was again... That strange feeling.
She had studied this man for days. She had read reports, interviews, psychiatric evaluations, and internal security dossiers.
None of them matched the person sitting before her.
There was something fundamentally... off. Not in the way she’d expected.
"You do enjoy the sound of your own voice, don’t you, Rathbourne?" she said. "Unfortunately, I don’t have the time to indulge you."
As Fitzgerald lowered his head slightly, a lock of dark hair slipped forward, partially veiling his face.
Catherine’s eyes narrowed. "Your hair."
He looked up.
"Getting shy?" A faint smile touched her lips. "Show me your eyes."
For reasons even he couldn’t explain... Fitzgerald obeyed.
Without taking his eyes off her, Fitzgerald reached up and combed his fingers through his hair, pushing the dark strands away from his forehead.
His face was fully revealed.
The broad forehead. The straight nose. The well-defined lips. The sharp jaw that seemed almost sculpted beneath the fluorescent light.
But Catherine’s attention never lingered on any one feature.
It settled on his eyes.
Steel-grey.
Cold, yet strangely clear.
Then her gaze drifted over the contours of his face. The angle where his jaw met his ear. The proportions between his nose, lips, and chin. Even the shape of his forehead.
Something about them...
She had seen countless photographs of Fitzgerald Rathbourne while investigating the Rathbourne family. Yet photographs flattened people. They erased depth, movement, expression.
Standing before her in the flesh... He looked different. Uncomfortably different.
Why...
Why does he look familiar?
The thought surfaced before she could suppress it. She cleared her throat almost immediately. Whatever flicker had crossed her face, she was certain Fitzgerald had noticed it. He noticed everything.
Her grip tightened around the pistol. "Does Dorian know?"
That was all that mattered.
This man possessed the one truth that could destroy everything she and Maximilian had sacrificed to build. Whether she walked out of this room with his cooperation... or with his blood on the floor... depended entirely on his answer.
A faint smile appeared on Fitzgerald’s lips.
Just as he’d expected. She hadn’t denied it. That alone was enough.
More curious, however, was the subtle change in her expression. The sharpness in her gaze had eased ever so slightly, replaced by something he couldn’t quite define.
Those eyes of hers... beautiful and...
"I was in the middle of sending an email," he admitted. "Then you startled me."
He tilted his head thoughtfully.
"I’m... not entirely sure whether I pressed send."
Catherine’s breath caught. This man was infuriating. "Phone." She extended her free hand. "Give it to me."
Instead of complying, Fitzgerald scooted farther back in the chair until his shoulders rested comfortably against the backrest.
Gone was the composed executive from moments ago. Instead, he looked almost... petulant.
"I don’t think I should." His tone carried surprising sincerity. "I wouldn’t want your elegant eyes ruined by the rotten things inside my phone."
Then he smiled. Not politely. Not arrogantly. A genuine smile spread across his face, lifting his cheeks until the corners of his steel-grey eyes nearly disappeared.
Catherine stared.
...
Is he...
Is he trying to look cute?
Her brows twitched.
Did this man forget she was pointing a loaded gun at his heart?
"I’ll check it myself," Fitzgerald offered earnestly, placing a hand over his chest as though taking an oath. "I promise I’ll tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."
For several long seconds, Catherine simply looked at him.
Her finger relaxed. Her thumb moved before her mind caught up.
*Click*
Catherine frowned.
She hadn’t meant to do that.
That smile... Those rounded cheeks. The way his eyes disappeared when he grinned...
Something about it tugged at a corner of her memory.
A memory she couldn’t quite reach.
Where...
Where have I seen that smile before?