Eyes narrowing by fractions.
Found it.
"Hard worker," I said. Kept my tone easy. Conversational. "Must run in the family."
She didn't blink. Didn't step back. But her hands curled at her sides. Fingers pressing into palms. "How do you know my father?"
Question delivered without inflection. Clean. Direct. Testing whether I'd stumble. Whether I'd reveal too much.
I tilted my head. Let silence stretch for a breath. Two. Then shrugged. "Small town."
Her expression didn't shift. But something behind her eyes sharpened.
She doesn't believe me.
Of course she didn't.
Smart girl.
"Players eat at the same restaurants," I continued. Casual. Unhurried. "Shop at the same stores. You see people. Recognize faces." I paused. Met her gaze. Held it. "Your father's been around a long time. People talk."
"About what."
Not a question.
A demand.
I smiled. Soft. Almost apologetic. "Community things," I said. Vague enough to mean nothing. Specific enough to imply everything. "Business. Family. The usual."
Her jaw tightened further.
I watched the tendons in her neck shift. Watched her swallow against whatever response wanted to surface.
She didn't ask what I meant. Didn't press for details. Because pressing meant admitting she didn't know what people said about her father. What conversations happened in rooms she couldn't access. Admitting ignorance gave me power. So she stayed silent. Let the implication hang.
Clever.
I glanced toward the window. Light streaming through glass, illuminating dust motes suspended in air. The street beyond quiet. Empty.
No customers. No interruptions.
Just the two of us and the truth she wouldn't ask for.
"I should let you work." I stepped toward the door. Slow. Deliberate. Giving her time to stop me.
She didn't.
I paused with my hand on the frame. Looked back. She stood exactly where I'd left her. Rigid. Guarded. Beautiful in the way wounded things were—all sharp edges and defiance.
The exhaustion showed in the set of her mouth. Lips pressed thin, corners pulled down in a way that had nothing to do with our conversation and everything to do with the weight she'd been carrying before I walked through the door.
She'd hidden it well at first. The posture. The controlled movements. The sharp replies designed to keep distance. But now—standing there with morning light cutting across her face—the cracks showed.
Dark circles beneath her eyes, deeper than makeup could've masked. Skin pale in a way that suggested missed meals, not genetics. The kind of pallor that came from adrenaline crashes and hospital waiting rooms.
Family emergency.
Her words, not mine.
