"Fake engaged."
"Distinction noted."
She twists a curl around her finger, worrying it into a tighter coil. "So. Backstory. I was thinking we could say we met at a library? Like, you were checking out a book on military history and I was in the true crime section and we just?—"
"No."
"No?"
"That is not believable."
"Why not?"
"I do not use libraries. If I require information, I acquire it through other means."
She stares at me for a long moment, her coffee cup frozen halfway to her lips. "Other means," she repeats slowly, like she's testing the words, trying to determine if they mean what she thinks they mean.
"Correct."
Her eyes widened slightly. I watch the realization dawn across her face in stages, confusion, then comprehension, thensomething close to alarm. "Please tell me you don't mean breaking and entering."
I maintain my focus on the road. A truck merges into our lane ahead. I adjust speed accordingly, keeping the proper following distance. Silence stretches between us for three seconds. Four. Five.
I say nothing.
"Oh my god." Her voice pitches higher. The coffee cup returns to the holder with more force than necessary, liquid sloshing against the plastic lid. "Oh mygod. You break into places. You just, you actually?—"
"The information was necessary," I say, keeping my tone level, matter-of-fact. This is simply how operations work. Intelligence gathering requires certain methods. She hired me for protection services. Protection requires intelligence. The logic is sound.
"Forwhat?" She twists in her seat to face me fully now, seatbelt pulling taut across her chest. "What could possibly require you to commit actual felonies?"
"A contract," I explained.
She covers her face with her hands. Her voice comes out muffled. "I hired a criminal."
"I prefer an independentsecurity contractor.."
"That's literally the same thing."
"Semantics."
She drops her hands, and there is that laugh again, wild and a little unhinged. "Okay. Fine. No library. What do you suggest?"
I consider it. "A fighting pit."
"Awhat?"
"You attended an underground combat event. You were impressed by my performance. You approached me afterward and expressed interest."
"Interest in what, exactly?" Her voice climbs half an octave. I recognize this vocal pattern. It signals discomfort. Possibly arousal. The distinction is unclear.
"My skills," I say. This is accurate. She expressed significant interest in my combat capabilities. The context of that interest, the specific circumstances, the adrenaline, the blood, is irrelevant to the fundamental truth of the statement.
Her cheeks flush. The color spreads from her cheekbones down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt. I note this reaction. Catalog it. File it away in the growing dossier of Colletta's physiological responses to certain topics of conversation. The data may prove useful.
"We are not," she says, her voice taking on that firm, slightly strangled quality that means she's trying very hard to sound authoritative, "telling my family we met at an illegal fight club."
I consider this objection. Process it. "Why not?"
