She falls into step beside me, her heels clicking against the pavement, steady and unhurried. “Same time next week?” she asks, like it’s already decided.
“Maybe sooner,” I say, unlocking my car.
Her hand rests briefly on the door frame before she steps back, the faint trace of her perfume lingering in the air—a remindershe was closer than I meant her to be. “Call me when you’ve got the next piece,” she says, the laugh that follows edged more with defiance than ease.
But when she smiles afterward, it isn’t the sharp, knowing one she uses like armor. It’s smaller, unguarded, like she forgot for a second who she’s supposed to be. It doesn’t belong in a war room, and it unsettles me more than her sharpest smile ever could.
I don’t linger on it, but I notice.
I catch myself watching and look away first. “Drive safe,” I tell her.
Her gaze flickers, like she knows exactly how long I’d been looking. “You too, widow.”
The word lodges in my chest, sharp and strange. I don’t correct her. I let it sit there, heavier than I expected.
The coffee line at Desert Drip snakes almost to the door, and I’m half a second from bailing when I hear her voice behind me. “You’re blocking the only decent caffeine in a five-mile radius, Widow.”
Elaine steps in beside me, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, blazer draped over one arm. Her lipstick’s the same deep red as last night, but the rest of her looks… softer. Less curated.
“Didn’t realize you were a morning person,” I say.
She shrugs, pulling a phone from her bag. “Not really. I just hate people more when I’m tired.”
I snort, and she glances up at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m laughing with her or at her. Then she smiles, the same smile from last night, and for some reason, I remember more of it than I mean to.
We talk while the line crawls forward, not about Donovan, not about the plan, but about the weather, about the new mural going up downtown, about how the barista somehow always burns the oat milk.
When it’s my turn to order, she slips hers in right after mine, the timing so quick it feels rehearsed. At the register, she pays without hesitation. “Consider it a payment for letting me cut in line.”
I arch a brow. “You didn’t cut. You just… appeared.”
Her gaze flickers down the length of me, quick and unassuming, but it leaves a warm stripe in its wake. “Same thing.”
We step outside into the dry, bright morning. For a second, neither of us moves. The air between us feels different than it did last night, lighter but no less charged.
She breaks it first. “I’ll call you if I find something.”
I nod, sip, and the words slip out before I think better of them. “Or I’ll call you first.”
Elaine tilts her head like she’s filing that away, then turns to go, her hair catching the sun. I watch her longer than I mean to, the scent of her perfume curling through the warm air like it has nowhere else to be. When she glances back over her shoulder, she doesn’t look surprised to catch me still looking.
That evening, I am sitting at my desk, a to-do list a mile long, half of which has deadlines attached, but my phone’s in my hand anyway.
I scroll past Donovan’s name, past the unread emails, until I hit hers. Elaine Royce. No reason to call her yet. Nothing new for the plan. I should wait.
I press the call button before I can talk myself out of it.
She answers on the second ring, voice edged with curiosity. “Widow. Either you found our smoking gun, or you’re bored.”
“Little of both,” I admit. “Are you busy?”
There’s a pause, like she’s weighing the question. “Depends on who’s asking.”
“Meet me at Honey & Heat in twenty?”
Her laugh curls through the receiver, low and amused. “You’re calling me for coffee twice in one week, Stella; careful, I might start thinking you like me.”
I don’t answer that; I just hang up before she can hear the smile tugging at my mouth.
