Temporary location means minimal visible threat. The bedroom door opens just after sunrise. She steps out in the oversized flannel and socks I gave her. She looks different in daylight.
Less weapon. More woman. That’s dangerous.
“Coffee?” I ask.
She pauses, assessing tone before answering. “Yes.”
Good. Normal answer.
I move to the small kitchen area and start the percolator. The cabin fills with the sharp smell of it. I found real coffee instead of ration-grade.
She walks to the window. Doesn’t ask where we are. Doesn’t ask how long we’ll stay. That tells me more than questions would. Maybe she’ll ask after coffee. Perhaps, I’m being a bit anxious.
“You sleep?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Lie. She doesn’t blink when she says it.
I pour two cups and hand one to her. Our fingers brush for half a second. She pulls away first. She wakes controlled.
I lean against the counter.
“Who promised you protection?” I ask.
No preamble or accusation. Just a question. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“That’s not your concern.”
“It became my concern when someone forced the elevator.”
Silence. She lifts the mug, buying time.
“You don’t trust me,” she says.
“No.”
The word lands between us. Honest. Her eyes flash — not wounded. Measuring.
“You think I brought danger with me.”
“I think you expected it.”
That one hits. She doesn’t deny it. The wind moves across the cabin roof. A branch scratches once against wood.
“You said something last night while you were sleeping,” I continue.
Now her composure shifts … just slightly.
“What did I say?”
“That it was your last job.”
There it is. A fracture. Small, but visible.
“And?” she asks carefully.
“And that the diamonds were clean.”
