"That's the fecking point, Dalla!" The words explode out of me, louder than I intended. "I didn't know. I was lying there unconscious while you walked out into god knows what. If something had happened to you?—"
"Nothing happened."
"Thistime. Nothing happenedthistime." I run my hands through my hair, trying to get a grip on myself. "What were you bloody thinking?"
"I was thinking that I couldn't sleep and I wanted coffee." Her voice has gone defensive, her chin lifting. "I was thinking that I've lived in Florida my whole life and I'm perfectly capable of walking down the road without a bodyguard."
"You're not just some random woman anymore. You're a target. You have enemies you don't even know about."
"Because you won't tell me about them!"
The accusation hangs between us, sharp and bitter.
She's not wrong.
I've kept things from her—the camera, the trafficking, the full scope of the danger.
I told myself it was to protect her, but maybe all I did was make her complacent.
Made her think the threat wasn't real.
"You're right," I say quietly. "I haven't told you everything. But that doesn't change the fact that you put yourself at risk tonight. Unnecessary risk. Stupid risk."
"Don't call me stupid."
"I didn't call you stupid. I said the risk was stupid. There's a difference." I take a breath, forcing myself to lower my voice. "Tell me what happened. All of it. Where did you go, what did you do, who did you see?"
She's quiet for a moment, her arms crossed over her chest.
I can see her weighing whether to fight me on this or cooperate.
Finally, she sighs.
"I went to the café. I ordered a vanilla latte and sat at the counter for maybe ten minutes." She pauses. "A woman bumped into me."
Everything in me goes still. "What woman?"
"I don't know. She said her name was Sol. She was about my age, maybe a little older. Dark hair, sharp features. She apologized, offered to buy me a replacement coffee."
"Did you take it?"
"She ordered it before I could say no. I took a few sips to be polite and then left." Dalla frowns, remembering. "There was something off about her. The way she looked at me. Like she was... studying me."
"Describe her again. Everything you remember."
"Dark hair, pulled back in a ponytail. Angular face—pretty, but kind of severe. She had this way of tilting her head, like a bird." Dalla shivers slightly. "Her eyes were wrong. They didn't match her smile."
My gut is screaming.
Everything she's describing—the calculated approach, the forced interaction, the intensity of observation—this wasn't a random encounter.
This was contact.
Intentional, planned contact.
"Did she touch you? Beyond the initial bump?"
"She shook my hand."
