“No,” I said. “More like a piece on the board.”
“An accomplice,” Jaime said, nodding. “Or a fall guy.”
“Exactly.”
He glanced down at Pampi, who let out a soft huff in her sleep, then back at me. “And when you questioned him… he really said nothing?”
Something inside me snapped. The question itself wasn’t accusatory. Not really. But layered on top of everything else, it landed like a challenge or doubt. Heat flared up my spine, my control slipping before I could catch it.
“I questioned him as well as I could,” I snapped. “Do you think I just sat there and waited? Stared at him and hoped he’d confess out of boredom?”
Jaime stiffened. “Chris?—”
“You can call me a wannabe trainer if you want,” I continued, the words tumbling out faster now, edged with hurt and anger.
I should have stopped then, but I kept going. “But I know how to do my job. I know how to read people when it matters. I know how to push when there’s pressure.”
My voice rose despite myself, vibrating with a low intensity that made Pampi stir.
“I questioned him to the best of my abilities,” I said. “Or do you have doubts about that too?”
The room went still. The words hung between us, ugly and sharp, and the moment they left my mouth, I wanted them back.
I heard the defensiveness in my own voice, the way it curved around old wounds and fresh insecurities. Jaime stared at me like I’d spoken a different language.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded.
The confusion on his face cut deeper than anger would have. I swallowed hard, the adrenaline draining out of me all at once, leaving behind a hollow ache.
I suddenly felt very tired. Very aware of how close we were to saying something we couldn’t easily take back.
“I…” I rubbed at my temple. “I need some air.”
Jaime’s jaw tightened. “We’re not done talking.”
“I know,” I said quickly. “But if we keep going right now, it’s only going to get worse.”
For a heartbeat, I thought he might argue. Might press or demand answers I wasn’t ready to give. Instead, his expression closed off, shutters dropping behind his eyes.
“That’s probably a good idea,” he said coolly.
The distance in his tone hurt more than if he’d raised his voice. It was controlled and professional. The same voice he used when he was walling himself off.
I nodded, already backing toward the door. “We’ll talk later,” I told him.
“Yeah,” he said. “We will.”
I slipped out before either of us could say anything else. The hallway felt too narrow, the air stale and heavy.
I leaned against the wall for a moment, eyes closed, breathing through the tightness in my chest.
I’d started it. I knew that. I’d let my insecurities steer the conversation, let the alcohol loosen my tongue just enough to aim the blade inward and outward at the same time.
I pushed off the wall and headed for the stairs, needing movement, needing space.
13
JAIME
