Smart.
I file that away.
Inside, my thoughts are sharper. This is the only way—to learn what she knows, to find out if she’s bluffing. Or worse, telling the truth.
Because I’m still not convinced.
Blood is convenient. Anyone can claim it. Especially someone who wants leverage.
I scroll again, pretending to be absorbed in flight times, while my peripheral vision studies her.
She watches me like I’m the sun. Admiring. Measuring. Hungry.
“I’ve followed everything you’ve done,” she says softly. “The podcast. The documentary. Costa Rica feels like the next evolution.”
I hum noncommittally.
“People need healing,” she continues. “And you’re… good at that.”
I almost laugh.
Instead, I smile.
“You don’t really know me yet,” I say.
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “I’d like to.”
Something tightens in my chest. Unwanted. Uninvited.
I think of Sophie.
Sweet Sophie, with her crooked drawings and quiet patience. The way she used to sit beside me on the bed, legs crossed, coloring inside the lines like it mattered. The way she cuddled up to me in the closet and let me wipe her tears. The way she believed in me without question.
The memory hits harder than I expect—sudden and blinding.
My throat closes. My vision blurs.
I snap my eyes back to the screen, like numbers can anchor me.
Iris tilts her head. “Are you okay?”
I swallow.
“Yes,” I say too fast.
She watches me more closely now, concern creasing her brow.
“You look pale.”
“Allergies,” I say, standing abruptly. “Spring does that to me.”
It’s a lie, but an easy one.
I reach for my water, feel my hand shake, set the glass down before she can clock it.
“I just need a minute,” I add.
“Of course,” she says gently. “Take your time.”
