The receptionist started to say something, but he waved her off sharply.
"That won't be necessary. Of course. I will help Mademoiselle Rousseau."
He turned to the receptionist. "Leave us."
She looked furious but obeyed.
The doctor turned to me, hands raised. "Your bill is covered. No charge. And if Mademoiselle Rousseau will wait, I will make copies of everything she needs."
He gathered the papers and disappeared.
Ella turned to me, eyes wide.
"You didn't have to do that," she whispered.
"You didn't have to help me earlier, either. Call it square."
She looked at me for a long moment, and I couldn't read what she was thinking.
That was rare.
Usually my radar was strong. I could read people—threats, intentions, lies. Survival.
But with this woman, I couldn't get a clear signal.
Just static. And heat.
The urge to leave hit me suddenly.
"I should go."
Her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my forearm.
The touch was light.
And it sent electricity straight through my brain.
What the fuck?
"I'd like to buy you coffee. And a pastry. If you're hungry."
I stared at her.
She held my gaze. Determined.
Say no. Walk away.
"I'm always hungry," I heard myself say.
She nodded, relief flickering across her face. "Good. That's settled."
We waited.
The silence stretched, charged.
The doctor returned, holding a thin stack of papers. He handed them to Ella with careful deference.
"Everything you requested. She was taken to the hospital after she was declared deceased here. There was nothing more we could do. But there is a name—the man you asked about before. It is in the file."
