With her, I fight.
"We need proof she's connected to the account." Maris taps the printout. "Something concrete."
"How do we get that?" I ask, though part of me already suspects the answer won't be one I like.
She looks up from her notes. Eyes bright with the kind of focused intensity I've learned means she's committed to something reckless. Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with physical threat and everything to do with calculated risk.
"We set a trap," she says simply.
"This is a terrible plan," I say for what must be the third time in as many minutes.
Maris doesn't even glance up from where she's adjusting the angle of the small camera. "You said that already."
"Because it's true." I shift my weight, arms crossed tight enough that my shoulders ache. "Because saying it once didn't make you listen."
Maris adjusts the camera. Small. Discreet. Positioned to capture the café entrance.
"It's abrilliantplan. She thinks we're rattled. Thinks I'm desperate to salvage my reputation. So I invite her for coffee. Play the victim. See if she slips."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then we try something else. But Grath, she's arrogant. I saw it at the fundraiser. She thinks she's untouchable."
I cross my arms over my chest, the motion deliberate and defensive. The fabric of my shirt pulls tight across my shoulders, bunching uncomfortably at the seams. I resist the urge to tug at it.
"What do you need me to do?"
"Hide in the back. Listen. If things go wrong, intervene." Her voice is steady, matter-of-fact, as if she's discussing a recipe adjustment rather than potential confrontation.
"Define wrong."
"If she threatens me. Or tries anything physical." She pauses, meeting my gaze. "Anything that feels dangerous."
"And if she just. Sits there and drinks coffee?"
"Then you stay hidden and we get nothing. But at least we tried." She shrugs, one shoulder lifting in a gesture I've come to recognize as forced casualness. "Better than doing nothing."
The logic is sound. I hate it anyway. Hate every part of it that puts her in the same room as someone who's already proven they'll hurt her.
"I don't like you being alone with her."
"I run a café, Grath. I'm alone with strangers all the time." She gestures around the empty space, as if the familiar surroundings make it safer somehow.
"Strangers who aren't actively trying to destroy your life."
She crosses to me then, closing the distance between us with those quick, efficient steps. Puts her hands flat on my chest, fingers splayed against the worn cotton. Looks up at me with those clear, determined eyes.
"I'll be careful. I promise."
"You're asking me to trust you."
"Yes."
"With something dangerous."
"Yes." No hesitation. No apology.
I blow out a breath through my nose, long and frustrated. Feel my chest rise and fall under her palms. "Fine. But I'm listening. And if I hear anything that sounds wrong—anything at all—I'm coming out."
