I stare at the folder on Cindy’s lap.
I have questions. And her vague statements pile on more questions. I should be demanding that file. Names, sources, anything that can finally give me something more solid than rumor and dread.
Instead, every instinct I have tells me to stand up and leave.
The park is still busy. A jogger passes behind us. A woman pushes a stroller along the path. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks at a squirrel with desperate urgency.
Everything looks normal.
That is part of what makes my skin crawl.
Cindy watches me too carefully.
But it’s not like a journalist protecting a source.
It’s like someone waiting for me to make the next move.
My mouth is dry. “Who worked hard?”
Her fingers rest on the folder. “People with reasons.”
“Again, that is not an answer.”
“No,” she says. “It’s the only answer I can give until I understand how far you’re willing to go.”
A chill moves through me.
“How far I’m willing to go? For what?”
“To know the truth.”
I look at her, really look at her, and the bad feeling that has been sitting in my gut all morning spreads.
There is something wrong with this.
With her.
With this bench, this folder, this careful little performance in a park where we are exposed enough to look safe and private enough that no one is paying attention.
“I think I’ve heard enough,” I say.
Cindy’s expression barely changes. “You haven’t heard anything yet.”
“I know.” I reach for my purse strap. “That’s the problem.”
Her eyes sharpen.
I stand before I can lose my nerve.
“I appreciate your time,” I say, because apparently, terror does not supersede politeness. “You can email whatever public materials you’re comfortable sharing.”
“Victoria.”
My name in her mouth stops me cold and sends chills down my spine.
I look down at her.
Cindy is no longer smiling.
