But I'd watched the ambulance pull up to this address thirty-six hours ago. Watched paramedics wheel someone out on a stretcher while Belle followed behind, purse forgotten, coat hanging off one shoulder.
She'd returned alone hours later. Moved through the darkened store like a ghost haunting her own life.
She shifted now. Reached for the stack of hardcovers she'd abandoned when I first spoke. Her hands trembled. Just slightly. Barely visible.
But there—fingers curling around spines, knuckles whitening with the grip required to keep them steady.
She lifted the books. Carried them toward a display shelf near the window. Set them down with exaggerated care. One at a time. Aligned edges. Checked spacing.
The movements took twice as long as they should.
Control.
She was clinging to it. To routine. To the small, manageable tasks that proved she could still hold something together when everything else threatened to slip.
I recognized the pattern. Had seen it in mirrors after my mother died. After the press conferences. After nights spent alone in hotel rooms wondering if anyone would notice if I stopped showing up.
Routine was armor. Until it became a cage.
Belle adjusted the final book. Stepped back. Frowned at the arrangement like it had personally offended her.
"You're working too hard." I said it quietly. Statement, not criticism.
Her spine stiffened. "I'm fine."
"You look exhausted."
"I said I'm fine." Sharper now. Defensive.
She turned toward me. Eyes blazing with the kind of anger that came from being seen when you'd worked so hard to stay invisible.
I held her gaze. Let the moment breathe. Didn't apologize. Didn't retreat. Just witnessed her without flinching.
She thinks I'm being cruel.
I wasn't.
Cruelty required intent to wound.
This was observation. Clinical. Necessary.
She needed to understand I saw her. Not the version she performed for customers or neighbors or herself in the bathroom mirror at three a.m.
The real her.
Fraying at the edges.
Holding on by threads she pretended were steel.
"You should rest," I said. Softer. Almost gentle.
"I don't need advice from—" She stopped.
From you.
From strangers. From men who walked into her store uninvited. From people who looked at her like they knew things she didn't.
From me.
