Silence stretches between us.
I swallow hard, forcing my voice steady. “What’s your price?”
“You think this is a transaction?” he asks.
“What else would it be?”
A beat.
Then, quieter: “Get in your car.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “What?”
“You want protection?” he says. “You come to me.” He rattles off his address.
That’s it. No negotiation. No explanation.
“Or I stay here,” I counter, pulse spiking. “And you come to me.”
A low sound comes through the line. Not quite a laugh. Close.
“No.” The word lands heavy.
I straighten, irritation flaring. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough,” he says.
My breath stutters.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Another pause.
“You’re scared,” he says.
The words hit harder than they should.
I push back immediately. “I’m being careful.”
“You’re alone,” he continues, ignoring me. “Remote location. No backup. And someone’s already breached your space.”
My pulse hammers. “You don’t get to?—”
“And you’re still debating whether to trust me,” he finishes, voice calm.
Because he’s not wrong. I hate that he’s not wrong.
“Why should I trust you?” I ask, quieter now.
Another pause. This one feels different. Like something just shifted on his end too.
“You shouldn’t,” he says.
My brows pull together. “That’s not reassuring.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it’s honest.”
I sit back, staring at nothing.
