“From you?” she asks.
A pause.
“No,” she answers herself. “That’d be a terrible strategy.”
The corner of my vision catches movement—Skot, repositioning along the adjacent row, his presence close enough to monitor, distant enough to appear incidental.
He is reinforcing this.
Managing it.
Interesting.
“You speak freely,” I say.
“I answer questions,” she replies.
“Without regard for consequence.”
“With full awareness of it.”
Her voice doesn’t waver.
Not once.
“You believe that will ensure your survival.”
“I think it gives me a better shot than pretending I don’t see what’s in front of me,” she says.
Silence settles between us again, thick with humidity and the quiet awareness of the garden continuing around us.
“You are not afraid,” I say.
She exhales softly.
“I am,” she admits. “I just don’t think it’s useful to show it.”
The honesty of it lands differently than anything else she has said.
No performance.
No calculation.
Just—
Stated.
I study her.
The dirt under her nails. The tension in her shoulders she refuses to let become visible weakness. The steadiness in her gaze that is not absence of fear, but control of it.
“You are… efficient,” I say.
The word feels strange.
Accurate.
Uncomfortable.
