No hesitation. No coyness. No playing games or pretending she hadn't said what she'd said this morning.
Just straight to the point like it was the most natural question in the world.
I laughed despite myself, scrubbing a hand over my face, feeling stubble rasp against my palm. "You don't waste time, do you?"
"Life's short. We covered this."
"Yeah, we did."
And she was right. Life was short. Brutally, unfairly short. I'd learned that lesson over and over until it was carved into my bones alongside all the other hard truths St. Paul's had taught me.
But that didn't mean I should make her life shorter.
Didn't mean I should drag her into my darkness just because she thought she wanted it.
I needed to change the subject before I said something stupid. Before the part of me that wanted to sayyes, I've reconsidered, give me your address and I'll be there in ten minutes and we can finish what we startedwon out over the part that knew better.
"Have you made any progress?" I asked, forcing my voice back to neutral ground. "With your sister?"
Silence for a beat.
I could almost hear her recalibrating, accepting the deflection even if she didn't like it.
Then she shifted gears, and I felt the moment pass. Tension releasing like a breath.
"Some. I'm still working on it. Trying to track down the man who knew her. The one from the clinic file. Étienne Moreau."
That perked me up immediately.
This I could do. This I could help with without crossing lines I shouldn't cross. Without putting my hands on her. Without finding out if she tasted as good as I'd been imagining.
"I can help with that. I have resources."
More silence.
I could almost hear her thinking through the phone. Weighing options. Deciding whether to accept help from a stranger—a dangerous stranger who'd admitted he was bad news—or handle it herself like she'd probably handled everything else in her careful, controlled life.
Part of me expected her to say no. To tell me she appreciated the offer but she'd manage on her own, thank you very much, Mr. No Sex Who Can't Make Up His Mind.
But she didn't.
"Yeah," she said quietly, something vulnerable underneath the word that made my jaw tighten. "I could use all the help I can get."
Something in my chest loosened.
Relief I had no business feeling.
"What's his name again?"
"Étienne Moreau."
I grabbed a pen from the nightstand and scribbled it down on the back of a crumpled receipt, letters slightly uneven in the dark.
"Give me a few minutes. I'll call you back."
"Just like that?" Disbelief colored her voice.
"Just like that."
