Chapter Text
The interrogation room was stifling, the air thick with tension despite Detective Inspector Maine’s carefully neutral tone. Vera had sat stiffly in the hard wooden chair, hands folded tightly in her lap to keep them from trembling. The lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting sharp shadows against the bare walls. The detective sitting across from her, a man with graying hair and tired eyes, regarded her with an unreadable expression.
"Miss Claythorne," he began, his voice measured, "I understand this is hard for the four of you, but its imperative we get the details of this case right. Let’s go over this again. From the beginning. What happened on Soldier Island?"
She inhaled sharply, forcing herself to stay composed. "I’ve already told you everything."
"Humor me. Please."
Vera wet her lips, her mouth dry. "We arrived by boat. There were ten of us. None of us knew each other beforehand—at least, not well. The invitations were all different. Mine was for a secretarial position. Others were told they were guests of Mr. and Mrs. Owen. But no one had met them."
The detective nodded, making a note in his ledger. "And when did you realize something was wrong?"
"When people started dying," Vera said flatly. "Marston was first, then Mrs. Rogers. The deaths followed the rhyme—'Ten Little Soldiers.' It wasn’t a coincidence. We knew someone was playing a game with us."
"And Wargrave?" the detective pressed. "You told me Dr. Armstrong told you all he was dead when you found him. But then he wasn’t."
Vera clenched her hands tighter in her lap. "None of us suspected. Not at first. We thought he was another victim. Armstrong… he lied to us. Made some kind of deal with Wargrave to throw off the killer, but he realized how ridiculous that was. Realized too late."
"And he told you?"
She nodded. "He ran down the hall banging on all of our doors in a panic. Said Wargrave had tricked us all. That he'd faked his death to play judge, jury, and executioner. We didn’t believe it at first, but then—" She exhaled sharply. "Then we checked Wargrave’s room and it was empty. He was alive and waiting to kill Armstrong out on the cliffs. So we went out to stop him."
The detective’s pen hovered over his notebook. "And that’s when Mr. Lombard shot him?"
Vera’s jaw tightened. "Yes."
"How did he justify it?"
She met the detective’s gaze, her voice firm. "It wasn’t justified, Detective. It was necessary. Wargrave wasn’t going to stop. He would have killed us all."
The detective studied her for a long moment before sighing. "It seems so inconceivable but all the evidence points to your story being the truth. And Blore corroborates your story. Lombard and Armstrong, too."
Vera didn’t respond. She knew the question he wasn’t asking— how did they survive when so many others hadn’t? But she had no answer that would satisfy him. Only the truth: luck, circumstance, and the ruthless will to live.
Finally, Maine closed his notebook with a sigh. "That will be all for now. Don’t go far. We’ll likely need to speak with you again."
Vera stood carefully, willing her legs not to shake. She left the room, her heartbeat a steady hammering against her ribs. In the dimly lit hallway, Philip was waiting for his turn. He caught her gaze, gave her the barest hint of a smirk, and disappeared into the interrogation room without a word.
She waited, the minutes stretching endlessly. The steady hum of voices from other rooms did nothing to ease her nerves. When Phillip finally emerged, his expression was unreadable. He merely gave her another nod, a silent reassurance that everything was under control.
The moment the detective finally gathered the four of them together again, Vera felt her breath ease just a fraction—but not enough. They were outside but she still felt as if she was in that room with its walls pressing in too tightly, the air too thick with unspoken things.
She barely registered Armstrong and Blore moving toward each other, the way they clung together in quiet relief. She only had eyes for Phillip.
He was waiting for her, hands shoved in his pockets, that same unreadable expression on his face—but the moment she reached him, he was solid, warm. He kissed her forehead, his breath ghosting over her skin, and spoke to her in a voice so low only she could hear.
"You alright?"
Vera nodded, even as her body betrayed her with a faint tremor. Phillip saw through it, of course, but he didn’t push. He never did.
Across from them, Blore cleared his throat. "You alright, Eddie?" His voice was gruff, like he was trying to make the moment something casual, harmless. "They rough you up any?"
"Of course not," Armstrong answered, though there was uncertainty in his voice. "Is that… is that something that happens often?"
Blore laughed, shaking his head. "Just a joke, doc." He hesitated, as if debating whether to keep holding onto Armstrong, then finally let go.
Vera shifted closer to Phillip, drawing some quiet comfort from his nearness. She wasn’t sure what was more exhausting—the interrogation itself or the act of pretending she was fine throughout it.
The officer in charge gave them all a measured look. "I think we’ll need you for further questioning over the next few days. I’d suggest you stay along the coast until the investigation ends. There’s a small hotel in the city—it should be convenient for you all, especially the young lady."
Vera lifted her chin, schooling her face into an expression of polite gratitude. "Thank you, sir. And what time do you need us back tomorrow?"
"We’ll send someone to get you," the officer said. "Don’t wander too far, although it’ll be in the morning so I wouldn’t expect you to be out and about."
Vera forced a small smile. "Of course."
The moment they were dismissed, she exhaled, the weight of everything settling deeper in her bones. She felt Phillip’s fingers brush against hers—just the slightest touch, barely noticeable before they went their separate ways to settle into their rooms.
The hotel was a miserable little place, but it had a bed and four walls, and that was all Vera could ask for. The moment she stepped inside her assigned room, she wanted to turn and leave again. The space was too small, too quiet. The silence pressed in on her, thick and suffocating. The single window overlooked the sea but, mercifully, not Soldier Island. The sight of that cursed place would have sent her over the edge.
She pressed a hand to her stomach, exhaling slowly. The nausea had been constant since they left the island, a sickening anxiety coiled tight in her gut. Everything felt wrong. The land beneath her feet was too solid, the silence in the air unnatural without the ceaseless paranoia thrumming through it.
She flinched at a knock on the door. Too sharp. Too sudden. But she knew it was him.
Philip.
She crossed the room quickly, unlocking the door and pulling him inside in one fluid motion. He said nothing at first, just shut the door behind him and took in her face. His sharp, assessing gaze softened, if only a fraction, and he reached out, his hands settling lightly on her arms.
"Alright?" he asked.
She nodded, but it was a lie, and they both knew it. Her skin felt stretched too tight over her bones, her breath shallow and uneven.
"They ask you anything you didn’t expect?" she asked, voice hushed, as if the walls had ears.
"Nothing I couldn’t handle," he said, watching her closely. "And you?"
She shook her head. "I told them what they wanted to hear. Not a word more."
Philip smirked, though there was little humor in it. "Smart girl."
The endearment made something inside her ache. She had always prided herself on being clever, on staying ahead of the game. But had it really done her any good? She had survived, yes, but at what cost?
She stepped closer, resting her forehead against his chest. He hesitated only a moment before wrapping his arms around her, his embrace warm and steady. She closed her eyes, breathing him in. He smelled of salt and sea air, of something steady and real in a world that had turned itself inside out.
"It doesn’t feel over," she whispered.
Phillip’s grip on her tightened. "It never will."
She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His expression was unreadable, but she could see it in his eyes—he understood. The weight of what they had done, what they had seen, would never truly leave them. They would carry it with them for the rest of their lives.
He reached up, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. His touch was surprisingly gentle. "We’re alive, Vera. That’s more than we can say for the rest."
A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "And that’s supposed to be a comfort?"
"No," he admitted. "Just a fact."
She huffed, shaking her head. "You’re insufferable."
His smirk returned, more genuine this time. "And yet, you let me in."
Vera sighed, turning from him and sitting down on the edge of the bed. It creaked under her weight, the springs old and worn. "I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight."
Phillip sat beside her, his arm resting lightly against hers. "Then don’t be."
She didn’t move away, and neither did he. They sat in silence, the weight of the past days pressing down on them, suffocating and unrelenting. The sounds of the hotel—distant footsteps in the hall, the occasional murmur of voices—felt oddly detached, like the remnants of a world they no longer belonged to.
Vera let her gaze drift to the window. The sea stretched out endlessly, dark and unknowable. For a moment, she swore she could see the outline of the island in the distance, an illusion born of exhaustion and frayed nerves. She shuddered, looking away.
Phillip shifted beside her, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a cigarette. He hesitated, then held it out to her instead. "Want one?"
She stared at it for a moment before shaking her head. "No."
He nodded, tucking it back away. "You should get some rest."
She gave a humorless laugh. "Sleep? After everything? I’ll be lucky if I ever sleep again."
Phillip was silent for a long moment before he reached over, his fingers brushing against hers. It wasn’t a grand gesture, barely more than a touch, but it grounded her. Reminded her she wasn’t alone in this waking nightmare.
"Stay," she murmured before she could stop herself. "Stay. Please"
He didn’t argue. He simply nodded, leaning back against the headboard, his presence steady beside her.