Chapter 6 Heart-Wrenching Interrogation

# Chapter 6: Heart-Wrenching Interrogation

The bridge of the Valkyrie was a marvel of modern technology—sleek monitors, state-of-the-art navigation systems, and panoramic windows offering a 180-degree view of endless ocean. Cain stood at the helm, his back to me, speaking quietly to a crewman who nodded and exited as I entered.

"Where exactly are we?" I asked, approaching cautiously.

"Approximately sixty miles off the Scottish coast." He turned, studying me in the clothes he'd provided. "How's the arm?"

"Functional." I joined him at the navigation console. "You said you had something to show me."

He nodded toward a monitor displaying what appeared to be a news broadcast. The volume was muted, but the headline scrolling across the bottom made my blood run cold: EDINBURGH OFFICER WANTED FOR QUESTIONING IN MULTIPLE HOMICIDES.

My photo—my official department photo—filled the right side of the screen.

"They're saying I murdered five men at the archives facility," I whispered, reading the ticker. "The same men Coleman brought to meet me."

"A convenient narrative. Officer goes rogue, kills colleagues, flees justice." Cain's voice was grim. "They're covering their tracks."

"They've made me a fugitive." The reality of my situation crashed down like a physical weight. "I can't go back."

"Not yet." He touched a button, changing the display to a secure communication channel. "But we're not without resources."

The screen flickered, then revealed a familiar face—Detective Murray, looking tense and exhausted.

"You're late," he snapped, then noticed me beside Cain. "Isla! Thank God. Are you alright?"

"Murray?" I stared in confusion. "What's going on? How are you—"

"He's been helping me," Cain explained. "For the past year."

"Helping you what?" I looked between them, bewildered.

Murray's expression was pained. "Keeping you alive, for starters. Finding evidence of what really happened five years ago."

My mind reeled. "You knew? All this time?"

"Not at first," Murray admitted. "I was assigned as your partner to watch you, report any signs of memory recovery. But the more I learned about your case, the more things didn't add up."

"So you contacted my husband?" The word felt strange on my tongue.

"Other way around," Cain interjected. "I approached him after noticing how genuinely he seemed to care about your welfare."

Murray nodded. "He showed me evidence of departmental corruption. Connections between Coleman and the Donovan organization. The real reason they wanted your memories to stay buried."

I sank into the captain's chair, struggling to process this betrayal upon betrayal. "And you never thought to tell me?"

"We had to be certain you were ready," Murray said gently. "That exposing you to the truth wouldn't put you in more danger than keeping you in the dark."

"What changed?" I demanded.

"You did," Cain answered. "You started remembering on your own. Once that happened, they couldn't risk keeping you alive."

Murray leaned closer to the camera. "Listen, Isla, I don't have much time. They're monitoring my communications. But you need to know—the evidence you collected five years ago? About Donovan's government contracts? It didn't disappear when you went over that cliff."

My heart raced. "What are you saying?"

"You made copies. Secured them somewhere only you would know to look." Murray glanced over his shoulder nervously. "Coleman and his bosses have been searching for years."

"If I had this evidence, why wouldn't I have come forward when I was found?"

"Because you didn't remember it existed," Cain said quietly. "And they made damn sure to keep it that way."

A thought struck me. "The key. The lighthouse key you gave me."

Something flickered in Cain's eyes—hope, perhaps. "You remember?"

"No. But it has to be connected." I turned back to Murray. "What's happening there? With the investigation?"

"They're tearing the city apart looking for you." His expression darkened. "Coleman's telling everyone you had a psychotic break, that your amnesia was hiding deeper psychological issues."

"Can you get out?" I asked, suddenly concerned for his safety. "If they suspect you're helping us—"

"I'm working on an exit strategy." Murray's attention shifted as someone called his name off-screen. "I have to go. Stay safe, Isla. Trust Lockhart—he's been fighting for you longer than anyone."

The screen went black, leaving me alone with Cain and a hurricane of questions.

"Five years," I said, turning to him. "Five years of watching me, waiting. Why now? Why not approach me sooner?"

"I tried, in the beginning." He moved to a cabinet, retrieving a bottle and two glasses. "Your reaction was... extreme."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you nearly killed me." He poured two fingers of amber liquid, offering me one. "The doctors were right about one thing—forcing memories caused psychological trauma. After that, I kept my distance. Waited."

I accepted the glass but didn't drink. "For what?"

"For you to find me." His eyes held mine. "Which you finally did."

I set the glass down untouched. "Take me to the evidence."

"It's not that simple." He sipped his drink. "If you had a psychotic break when I approached you directly, imagine what might happen if I take you to a location your subconscious has deliberately buried."

"So what's your plan? Keep me on this boat indefinitely?"

"My plan is to help you remember naturally." He set his glass aside. "Starting with this."

He pressed a button on the console, and a hidden panel in the wall slid open to reveal a small safe. From it, he removed what looked like a police-issue taser.

"What are you doing?" I tensed, ready to defend myself.

"Helping you remember." He placed the taser on the table between us. "Five years ago, you used a weapon like this to incapacitate a Donovan lieutenant. Got him to confess to government-sanctioned assassinations on Scottish soil."

I stared at the device. "You want me to torture you for information?"

"I want you to interrogate me as you would a suspect who holds vital information." His expression was deadly serious. "Your muscle memory responded during the gunfight. Perhaps your interrogation techniques will resurface the same way."

"This is insane."

"Desperate times." He spread his hands. "I'm offering myself as a trigger for your memories. Ask me anything. Do whatever you need to."

I stood, pacing the bridge. "And if I refuse?"

"Then we find another way." He shrugged. "But time is running out. Every hour increases the chance of them finding us—or of Murray being discovered."

I studied him, this man who claimed to be my husband, who had shown me evidence of my past life yet still felt like a stranger. Could I trust him? Did I have a choice?

"Fine," I said finally. "But we do this my way."

Twenty minutes later, we were in what appeared to be a secure room below deck. Cain sat calmly in a metal chair, his hands cuffed to a heating pipe running along the wall. I'd insisted on the restraints—not because I feared him, but because I needed the psychological edge.

"Comfortable?" I asked, circling him slowly.

"I've been in worse positions." His eyes tracked my movement, a strange combination of wariness and trust in his gaze.

I'd left the taser on a table just out of his reach. A symbolic presence rather than an immediate threat. Beside it sat a syringe—a mild truth serum, he'd claimed, used in his private security operations.

"Let's start simple," I said, adopting the cool demeanor I used when interviewing suspects. "How did we really meet?"

"A charity gala. Four years before your 'death.' You were working security for a diplomat; I was there cultivating clients." A smile touched his lips. "You caught me accessing restricted areas. Nearly broke my arm before I could explain I had legitimate business."

"Which was?"

"Planting surveillance on a suspected arms dealer. Your diplomat's dinner companion."

I frowned. "So you were what—freelance intelligence?"

"Something like that." He shifted slightly, the handcuffs clinking against the pipe. "The lines between private security, intelligence gathering, and government operations have always been... fluid in my business."

"And the police department? How did I end up working with you if you operated in those gray areas?"

"Your specialized skills made you valuable for joint operations. Officially, I was a consultant. Unofficially..." He shrugged. "We shared objectives, if not always methods."

I picked up the syringe, examining it in the harsh overhead light. "And when did professional collaboration become personal?"

"After the Macallan operation." His eyes never left mine. "Three civilians held hostage in a bank. You made a call that saved their lives but compromised months of intelligence gathering."

"You were angry," I guessed.

"Furious." His smile was rueful. "Until you showed up at my door at 3 AM, still in your tactical gear, demanding to know if I valued intelligence more than human lives."

I uncapped the syringe, approaching him slowly. "And what did you say?"

"I said you were naive. Idealistic." His breathing quickened slightly as I moved closer. "You punched me. Then kissed me. Said someone needed to remind me what we were fighting for."

The image was so vivid—his surprised expression, the taste of blood from his split lip, the electricity between us—that I nearly stumbled. A memory, not imagination.

"Roll up your sleeve," I ordered, my voice steadier than I felt.

He complied without hesitation, offering his arm. "Truth serum isn't necessary, Isla. I won't lie to you."

"Consider it insurance." I administered the injection smoothly, professionally, as if I'd done it a hundred times before. Perhaps I had.

While waiting for the drug to take effect, I continued my questioning. "The cliff house. Whose was it?"

"Ours." He leaned his head back, eyes closing briefly as the serum began to work. "Wedding present from me to you. Neutral territory where we could be ourselves."

"And the wedding? Whose idea was that?"

"Mine." His voice grew slightly slower, more deliberate—the drug taking hold. "You resisted. Said it was too complicated with your undercover work. Too dangerous."

"What changed my mind?"

A soft laugh escaped him. "I nearly died. Bullet missed my heart by centimeters during an operation in Prague. When I woke up in the hospital, you were there, wearing a white dress. Said you weren't waiting any longer."

The drug seemed to be working—his responses came easier, defenses lowered. Time to push harder.

"What was I investigating when I disappeared?" I demanded. "The full truth."

"Government-sanctioned assassinations." His eyes had taken on a slightly unfocused quality. "Donovan's organization was being used to eliminate political liabilities. Foreign diplomats, journalists, even British citizens who knew too much."

"And I had proof?"

"Recordings. Financial records. Names of officials involved." He swallowed hard. "You secured it the night before our anniversary. Said it would blow open the entire operation."

"Where did I hide it?"

For the first time, he hesitated. "I don't know."

I picked up the taser, letting him see it. "Try again."

"I truly don't know." Sweat beaded on his forehead—a side effect of the serum, or fear? "You said it was safer if only you knew. That way I couldn't be forced to reveal it."

I set the taser down, frustrated. If he was telling the truth—and the serum suggested he was—then the evidence remained hidden, accessible only to a woman who no longer existed.

"When I was found," I continued, "with no memory. What did you do?"

Pain flickered across his features. "Everything. Anything. Bribed hospital officials. Threatened police. Nearly got myself arrested trying to reach you."

"But you didn't succeed."

"They had you too well protected." Bitterness crept into his voice. "By the time I managed to see you, the damage was done. You looked right through me. No recognition at all."

I moved closer, studying his face for any sign of deception. "And after that?"

"I watched. Waited. Built resources." His breathing had grown labored, pupils dilated from the drug. "Created contingency plans for when your memory returned."

"Including a clone?" I asked sharply, remembering Coleman's warning about Cain's resources. "Was that part of your contingency?"

Surprise flickered across his face. "What are you talking about?"

"Coleman said you had my blood samples. That you were preparing to clone me if you couldn't get the real me back."

Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by something darker. "He twisted the truth. Yes, I have your blood samples. For medical purposes only."

"What medical purposes?"

"You were—" He stopped, seeming to fight the drug's effects. "There's something you don't know. Something important."

I picked up the taser again, this time activating it. The electrical crackle filled the small room. "Then tell me."

"The night you disappeared. The night you went over that cliff." He looked directly into my eyes. "You were pregnant."

The taser nearly slipped from my suddenly numb fingers. "What?"

"Eight weeks. We had just found out." His voice cracked with emotion the serum couldn't suppress. "You were going to leave field work. We were going to disappear after the Donovan case closed."

The room seemed to tilt around me. Pregnant. I had been carrying a child. Our child.

"You're lying," I whispered, though the rational part of me knew the serum made that unlikely.

"I wish I were." Tears gathered in his eyes. "The blood samples were for DNA matching. In case a body ever washed ashore. In case our child somehow survived what you didn't."

Rage exploded through me—not at him, but at everything that had been taken. At Coleman and his conspirators. At the faceless men who had chased me onto that cliff. At the sea that had stolen my memories and my child.

I lunged forward, grabbing the nearest object—a heavy stapler from the desk—and drove it against his hand, the metal teeth puncturing his palm where it lay flat against the pipe. He didn't cry out, didn't flinch, just watched me with those sorrowful blue eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I demanded, voice shaking.

"Would it have helped?" Blood pooled beneath his pierced hand. "Would knowing you lost not only your identity but our child have made your recovery easier?"

My fury drained away as quickly as it had come, leaving me hollow. I sank to my knees before him, staring at what I'd done. The stapler had driven completely through his palm, pinning it to the pipe in a grotesque parody of a crucifixion.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, reaching for his injured hand.

"Don't be." His voice was gentle despite the pain he must have been feeling. "Your anger is justified."

As I carefully removed the stapler, another memory surfaced—Cain and me in a small café, his hands holding mine across the table as I showed him something. A positive pregnancy test. His face transforming with wonder and joy.

"We were happy," I said softly, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "Truly happy."

"Yes." He didn't elaborate, didn't need to.

I bandaged his hand with the first aid kit from the wall, my movements automatic, practiced. Neither of us spoke as I tended to the wound I'd inflicted. When I finished, I unlocked the handcuffs, freeing him from the pipe.

"I think that's enough interrogation for today," I said, unable to meet his eyes.

He caught my wrist with his uninjured hand. "Isla. Look at me."

I forced myself to face him, expecting accusation or anger. Instead, I found only tenderness and a grief that mirrored my own.

"I would endure far worse," he said softly, "if it helped you remember who you were. Who we were."

"And who was I?" I asked, suddenly desperate to know. "Not just an officer. Not just your wife. Who was Isla Lockhart?"

A smile touched his lips. "The most infuriating, brilliant, compassionate force of nature I've ever known. Someone who believed justice mattered more than rules. Someone who fought for the vulnerable even when it cost her everything."

"She sounds like a fairy tale."

"She was real." His thumb brushed over my pulse point. "And she's still in there, fighting to get out."

I pulled away, needing space to process everything I'd learned. "I need some air."

He nodded, understanding. "Take all the time you need. But Isla?" His voice stopped me at the door. "Remember one thing: whatever you decide, whatever you remember or don't—you're not alone anymore."

I left him there, blood seeping through the bandage I'd applied, and made my way to the deck of the yacht. The endless horizon of sea and sky offered no answers, but as I breathed in the salt air, I felt something shifting inside me—pieces of a puzzle slowly, painfully realigning.

I wasn't the woman who had gone over that cliff five years ago. Nor was I merely the officer the department had reconstructed from the broken pieces. I was someone new, formed from fragments of both.

The question remained: what would this new Isla do with the truth she'd discovered?