The words won’t form. My silence is answer enough.
The hope leaves her in stages. First the gaze, going flat. Then the mouth, pressing shut. Then the shoulders, curling inward like she’s trying to hold her ribs together.
“No.” The word comes out small. Cracked. “No, she was supposed to be there. The intel was solid. I checked it a hundred times. She was supposed to be there.”
“They moved them.” My voice sounds wrong. Distant. “Hours before we arrived. They knew we were coming.”
“Someone told them.”
“Yes.”
She’s shaking. Fine tremors running through her whole body, fists forming and releasing at her sides.
“How close?” She looks at me, her eyes wet. “How close were we?”
The truth will gut her. But she’s asking.
“The coffee was still warm.”
A sound escapes her. Small and wounded. She presses her hand to her mouth, trying to hold it in.
Sofia was right there. Hours ago. Gone again. Swallowed back into the network that’s been chewing girls up for years.
The doorway is where I belong. Give her space to grieve. To hate me.
I’m crossing the room before I decide to. She doesn’t back away when I reach her. Doesn’t pull back when I grip her arms. Just looks up at me with wet lashes. Searching. Waiting.
“I’m sorry.” The words scrape out rough and inadequate. “Isabella, I’m sorry. I promised you I’d find her and I didn’t.”
“Don’t.” Her hand comes up. Covers my mouth. Stops the words. “Don’t apologize. Don’t tell me it’s not my fault. Don’t say any of the stereotypical things people say when they can’t fix what’s broken.” Her voice shakes. “Just. Don’t.”
I nod. She lets go.
We stand there. Within reach. The tears she’s fighting visible in her lashes, her jaw trembling with the effort of holding herself together.
“I should have been there.” Her voice cracks. “If I’d been in the van, on comms, maybe I would have seen something. Maybe I could have caught it in time.”
“No.” I cup her face. Force her to look at me. “This isn’t on you. The leak came from somewhere else. You did everything right.”
“Then why does it feel like I failed her again?”
“I need—” She stops. Tries again. “I need to not be in my head right now.”
“Tell me to stop.” Same words. Same offer.
“No.” Same answer. Fierce. Wet-eyed and certain.
I go to her waist. Start to turn her. Automatic. Instinct. One grip at her nape, the other angling her hip.
“No.” She resists. Braces against the turn. Plants her feet.
I freeze.
She turns around. Faces me.
I stop breathing.
Right there. Tear-tracked and fierce. Lashes clumped together from crying.
