We have nothing to say about Julia Trefinus’ death. Nothing. Especially in this suite we’ve been placed in while “assisting with their inquiries.” We know they’re watching us. Like I'm watching Ryun. Each time he returns from an interrogation. Yes, he meets my eyes – but for almost too long. And when I sidle my thumb along the blade of the dull cheese knife that’s somehow the only cutting edge in the suite, his lips no longer flicker with excitement. Weakling. Fool. He’ll break and tell about the games we shared with Julia, about the tapes. Unless I get there first.