“Careful ones. Surgical.” Her voice is a ghost. “He knew exactly where to cut.”
Christ, pulling information from her is like defusing a bomb blindfolded.
“Give me an example.”
She’s quiet for so long, I think she won’t answer. Then: “Said I was—exhausting. Too much. Too analytical.” Her voice drops even lower. “That I process everything instead of feeling anything.”
“What else?”
“That I talk too much. Think too loud. Take up too much space with my words.” She presses her face against her knees. “That I was embarrassing him at work functions with my constant need to analyze everything.”
“Talk too much?” The words burst out of me before I can filter them. “You’ve barely said fifty words since I met you. I’vebeen trying to get more than three sentences out of you for hours.”
She peeks up at me over her knees.
“Nathan’s an ass.” The anger bleeds into my voice, hot and sudden. “You realize that, right? He beat you down so thoroughly that you’ve gone nearly mute. That’s not normal. That’s not you being ‘too much.’ That’s him being abusive.”
Her eyes widen slightly.
“The woman who should be talking, sharing her brilliant mind, analyzing everything because that’s your gift—she’s hiding. Because some insecure prick couldn’t handle dating someone smarter than him.”
She blinks rapidly, fighting tears.
“What else did he say?” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
“My turn,” she whispers.
Fair enough. She earned it.
“Why explosives?” Her voice gains a tiny bit of strength. “Why that specialty?”
“Control. Precision. One gram off, one second wrong, everything changes. I like the certainty of it.”
She nods, as if this makes perfect sense. “Your turn.”
“What else did Nathan say?”
She flinches. “Why does it matter?”
“Not an answer.”
Her fingers twist in the hem of the borrowed shirt. “He said I was …” She stops. Swallows. Tries again. “That I have sex like a nun writing a thesis paper on the experience.”
The words hang in the air like smoke from a detonation.
I set down the gun oil with deliberate care. If I don’t, I’m going to throw it through the wall.
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” Her voice cracks slightly. “I analyze everything. I don’t—feel. Not the way normal people?—”
“Stop.”
The word comes out sharp. She flinches, and I force myself to soften my tone, if not my glare.
“You don’t know?—”
“I know.” I lean forward, elbows on knees, closing the distance. “A nun doesn’t crawl through broken glass to get evidence. A coward doesn’t climb a fire escape despite being terrified of heights.”
