“That’s not what I’m asking, John. All I’m saying is, if Charlie’s aunt was there that night, then I’d like to ask her a question or two.” John stared at Clay, who just looked back at him placidly, waiting. John grabbed a pair of socks and sat down on the bed.

“Why are you suddenly coming to me, anyway?” he asked. “No one’s believed anything I’ve said so far.”

“It’s what we found at the compound,” Clay answered, more easily than John had expected. He straightened.

“The compound—you mean Charlie’s dad’s house?” Clay gave him a level look.

“I think we both know it was more than just a house,” he said. John shrugged and said nothing, waiting for him to go on. “Some of the things we found in the wreckage were … they didn’t mean much to anyone else, but what I saw—some of the things I saw down there were pretty scary, even though most of it was buried under concrete and metal.”

“‘Scary’? Was that the conclusion of your entire team, or just you?” John said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Clay didn’t seem to hear him, his eyes fixed on a point between them. “Clay?” John said, alarmed. “What did you find? What do you mean, ‘scary’?”

Clay blinked. “I wouldn’t be sure how else to describe it,” he said. John shook his head. “I will say this,” Clay said harshly. “I’m not ready to close the book on the Dave/William Afton/whatever else he was calling himself—”

“Springtrap,” John said quietly.

“I’m not ready to close the book on that case,” Clay finished.

“What does that mean? You think he’s still alive?”

“I just think we can’t make any assumptions,” Clay said. John shrugged again. He was out of patience—out of interest, almost. He was sick of intrigue: Clay withholding information, trying to protect them—as if keeping secrets had kept any of them safe, ever.

“What do you want me to ask her?” John said plainly.

“Just get her to talk to you. It’s been wonderful having her here again, don’t misunderstand, but it seems like she’s holding something back. It’s like she’s—”

“Not herself?” John said with an edge of mocking.

“That’s not what I was going to say. But I think she might know something she hasn’t told us yet—maybe something that she hasn’t felt comfortable sharing.”

“And she might feel comfortable sharing it with me?”

“Maybe.”

“That feels morally ambiguous,” John said wearily. From the dresser, the whirring noise started again. “See? Theodore agrees with me,” he said, gesturing toward the rabbit.