The man in gray closed the distance between them, casting a glance at the far-more-colorful suits the tech had collected. They had been rinsed off before ever being back on the salvaging vessel, but Mr. HR wrinkled his nose anyway. The smell of death was damned hard to get out, and hard to forget, even if Rosalyn was used to it now.

“I thought we might have a chat,” he said. His head swiveled immediately to Rosalyn, inspecting her closely. She swallowed hard, keeping her lips sealed. Griz and Owen were good guys. They wouldn’t tell on her; they wouldn’t rat her out for having a quick drink on the ride back to headquarters. Hell, Owen had asked for a swig, too. Not that any amount of liquor existed that could flush out the memory of what they had seen in that cargo hold.

Rosalyn, admittedly, had taken more than a sip. She didn’t like how close the suit was standing, but she kept eye contact, willing herself to breathe in short bursts through her nose, never letting the man get a whiff of her incriminating breath.

This is it, she thought with another twitch. I’m canned.

“A chat,” Rosalyn repeated, monotone.

“A discussion. What you witnessed on this assignment . . . Well, we know it can’t be easy. It’s best we just touch base, make sure you receive the proper debrief. The proper counseling.”

“Counseling?” Owen chuckled, walking past Rosalyn and down the freezing cold, tubelike tunnel of the air lock toward the outer launch bay. “Sure, mate. Sure. Let’s get this over with, yeah? It’s not something I’d like to dwell on.”

“I’m good.” Griz popped a breath mint in and went the same way, hands in his flight suit pockets, a whistled tune fluttering his mustache.

“It’s mandatory, I’m afraid, for all of you,” the suit said softly. Sternly. People listened to him, Rosalyn thought, and they did what he asked, even if he never raised his voice. But Griz wasn’t people. Griz was Griz. She heard him snort before he turned and leaned against the circular portal that led to the bay.

“Mandatory,” the suit said again, never bothering to turn and look at Griz. Then he stuck out his hand toward Rosalyn, his gaze fixed on her mouth. Rosalyn held back a shiver. She didn’t like the way his face could remain so impassive, or his oozy corporate voice, or his overgroomed eyebrows.

“Josh Girdy,” he told her, waiting until Rosalyn shook his hand. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Ms. Devar. I’d very much like to know what you saw on that ship.”

—

Rosalyn was the last to be called in.