"Her voice. The way she'd do different voices for different characters." A sad smile ghosted across her lips. "She made Hell sound almost beautiful when she read it."
"Keep it," I said. "If you want."
She looked up, surprised. "This is worth—"
"I know what it's worth." I stepped back before the urge to touch her became too strong. "Consider it payment for tolerating my company."
Her smile was genuine this time. Small but real.
It did dangerous things to my pulse.
By day four, we'd fallen into patterns.
Having morning coffee together led to learning more about her.
"Teach me to make espresso," she said. "Properly. If I'm going to be trapped here, I might as well learn something useful."
So I taught her. Grind, tamp, pressure, timing. Her hands were smaller than mine, elegant even when performing mundane tasks. She focused with that same intensity I'd seen when she'd pointed the gun at me—complete commitment, no hesitation.
"Like this?" She looked up, and we were suddenly too close. I could see gold flecks in those green eyes.
"Exactly like that."
She held my gaze a beat too long before turning back to the machine.
The coffee came out perfectly.
Then, over omelets, she told me about the memory.
She almost smiled. Almost.
"It's not like a superpower," she said, pushing peppers around her plate. "People always think it's this amazing gift. Perfect recall, never forget a face, ace every exam." She took a bite, chewed slowly. "They don't think about the other part."
"Which is?"
"I can't forget anything. Not just useful things—anything." She set her fork down. "The look on Richard's face when he realized I'd seen his screen. Every word of my father's press conference, verbatim, playing on a loop I can't shut off. The exact pattern of the carpet in that motel room. The way the gun felt in my hands—weight, texture, temperature. It's all just…there. Permanent. Like someone carved it into glass."
I watched her hands tighten around her coffee mug.
"When I was twelve, I saw a car accident on the way to school. A woman went through the windshield." Her voice stayed level, clinical. "I can still see every detail. The glass. The blood. The angle of her arm. I had nightmares for two years, and my therapist said I'd process it and move on. But I couldn't move on, because I couldn'tforget. Every time I closed my eyes, it was right there. High definition. Frame by frame."
"Valentina—"
"My father used it." She looked up, and the rawness in her expression hit me like a blow. "Once he figured out what I could do, he'd bring me to meetings. 'Bring Valentina, she'll remember the details.' I was fourteen the first time. Sat in a room full of men in expensive suits discussing real estate deals I didn't understand, and memorized every word. He'd quiz me afterward in the car. Names, numbers, terms. Like a party trick."
My jaw tightened. "He used you as a recording device."
"He used me as a recording device," she confirmed, no inflection. "And I was so desperate for his attention, I wasproudof it. Proud that I could be useful to him. That I had something he valued." A hollow laugh. "Turns out the thing he valued most about me is the thing that's going to get me killed."
I reached across the table. Didn't take her hand—just rested mine beside hers, close enough to touch if she wanted. An offer, not a demand.
She looked at my hand for a long moment.
Then she slid her fingers over mine.
"It's strange," she said quietly. "Being around someone who notices things the way I do. You catalog everything—exits, threats, who's armed, where the danger is. I do the same thing, just with details instead of weapons. We're both cursed with remembering too much."
"Maybe that's why we understand each other."
