The interrogation room was cold and bare, a square box of steel and glass. The walls were painted a lifeless grey, and a single harsh light hung from the center of the ceiling, casting a tight circle of illumination over the metal table and two chairs. One wall, made entirely of mirrored glass, reflected Peeta's hunched figure sitting there, silent.
Behind that mirror, several officers and a few detectives watched, but Peeta could not see them. It was a unidirectional glass-he could only see his own reflection, faint and ghostly.
Peeta's head was bowed low. His cap and shades had been removed the moment he entered the station. His hands rested limply on the table, the handcuffs around his wrists making a faint clicking sound every time he shifted.
The officer seated across from him was tall and broad-shouldered. His uniform was pressed, and his eyes were sharp, but no matter how many questions he fired, Peeta said nothing.
"State your full name," the officer said sternly.
Peeta didn't move. His face was hidden by the angle of his head. Only the rise and fall of his chest showed he was still breathing.
The officer tapped the table, harder this time. "Peeta Brian! Are you listening? You have the right to remain silent, but it would be better if you cooperated."
Silence.
Another officer entered, carrying a thick folder filled with documents. "We've got all the footage. The race, the reveal, Linton Getty collapsing."
Still, Peeta said nothing. It was as if the world around him had dissolved, and he was sitting alone with his own heavy thoughts.
After nearly an hour, just when it seemed he might never speak, Peeta lifted his head slightly. His voice was dry and cracked, almost a whisper:
"I need my lawyer."
The officers exchanged glances.
One of them leaned closer, voice low. "You sure that's all you want to say, Brian? This is your chance to explain."
Peeta leaned back into his silence, refusing to meet anyone's gaze. It was clear he wouldn't say another word without representation.
The double glass doors of the police station swung open with a loud whoosh as Henderson stepped inside. He was a thin man in his late forties, wearing a grey suit that was more about comfort than fashion. His black briefcase slapped against his thigh with each hurried step.
At the front desk, a young officer looked up from her computer. "May I help you, sir?"
Henderson flashed his ID quickly. "Barrister Henderson. I'm here for Peeta Brian. Where's your chief?"
"Down the hall, first door to the left," she said.
Without waiting for thanks, Henderson marched down the corridor. His polished shoes clicked sharply against the linoleum floor.
Inside the Chief's office, the atmosphere was heavy. Chief Ronald Mayweather sat behind a thick oak desk, reading over a file with a deep frown. He didn't look up when Henderson entered.
"Good afternoon, Chief," Henderson began, setting his briefcase down with a thump. "I'm here to discuss the release of my client, Peeta Brian."
Chief Mayweather closed the file slowly. His eyes, a cold blue, fixed on Henderson.
"Your client violated a direct order," the Chief said simply.
Henderson sat down across from him. "I was told Peeta was arrested after winning a horse race, not for committing a crime."
Chief Mayweather leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together. "When Peeta Brian was released from prison," he said slowly, "he signed a binding agreement. He was forbidden from making any form of contact with Mr. Linton Getty. That included communication, proximity, and events where Getty would be present."
Henderson raised an eyebrow. "But Mr. Linton hosted a public race. Open to anyone, if I understand correctly."
"Correct," the Chief admitted. "But Brian knew who was hosting it. He knew Linton Getty would be there."
"With all due respect," Henderson said calmly, "my client entered a fair competition. He rode the best race, and he won. It was not an arranged meeting. It was not even personal. It was sport."
Chief Mayweather's face hardened. "The result was personal. Linton Getty suffered a hypertensive attack, probably brought on by the shock."
Henderson nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. "Is that Peeta's fault? Getty invited everyone. Getty offered two million dollars to whoever won. Paraventurly, Peeta happened to be the best."
The Chief's fingers drummed the desk. "He should have stayed away."
"Then Getty should have been more careful with his invitations," Henderson replied firmly.
The sun was already beginning to lean westward, stretching long shadows across the wide street outside the police building. A low, steady breeze stirred the leaves of the trees lining the sidewalk, carrying with it the faint, salty scent of the sea from somewhere beyond the city.
Peeta Brian walked out through the heavy double doors with Henderson by his side. The moment they stepped outside, a few reporters lingering across the street snapped pictures, their cameras flashing like tiny bursts of lightning. A few bystanders pointed and whispered.
Peeta pulled the brim of his cap low over his eyes. Henderson gave the crowd a warning glance and steered him quickly towards a dark blue car parked at the curb.
They said nothing until they were inside the car. The doors shut with a soft thud, cutting off the world outside.
Peeta leaned his head back against the seat, breathing slowly. For a moment, it seemed like he was simply trying to absorb the day's chaos. Then, with a slow, sharp smile curling at the corner of his mouth, he turned his head toward Henderson.
"Everything," Peeta said in a voice low and almost pleased, "is working according to plan."
Henderson, who had been adjusting the rearview mirror, froze for a second. He looked at Peeta through narrowed eyes.
"You call that plan?" Henderson muttered, voice dry. "You gave half the country a heart attack. You're on every newspaper, every television screen, every blog in England. You and Linton both."
Peeta's smile deepened, but it was not the smile of a man who was pleased for fame. It was the smile of a man who saw every piece of a puzzle falling exactly where he wanted them.
Peeta adjusted the cuff of his jacket lazily. His voice dropped even lower, almost to a whisper. "The next time Mr. Linton sees me," he said, "it will be the last person he ever sees before he dies."
Henderson stared at him, his mouth tightening into a thin line. For a moment, there was only the soft ticking of the car's dashboard clock.
"You're playing with fire," Henderson said finally. "And Linton isn't a man who forgives. He might be lying on a hospital bed now, but he's still dangerous."
Peeta's eyes gleamed with a strange, cold fire.
"He's already half-dead," Peeta said, almost to himself. "The shock weakened him. The humiliation finished the work. All that remains is... the end."
Henderson started the car, pulling out onto the road with a small jolt.
As they drove away from the police building, Peeta stared out the window. Billboards flashed past - flashing news updates showed pictures of the Grand Prix chaos, headlines screaming:
"Getty Grand Prix Turns to Chaos!"
"Who Is the Mysterious Rider?"
"Linton Getty Hospitalized After Shocking Reveal!"
Peeta's name was everywhere.
So was Linton's.
The whole of England was watching.