I drink because my throat feels scraped raw and because I need a moment to calm down.
When I hand the glass back, he sets it down.
Then he waits.
I sit back against the headboard, pull my knees up, and wrap my arms around them. “Tell me.”
He studies me for a moment, as if deciding how much I can take.
I straighten.
His gaze sharpens slightly.
Good. Let him see it.
I am scared. I am exhausted, but I am still here, and I'm not going anywhere.
“I am not going to break, Mario,” I say.
“No,” he says quietly. “You are not.”
Something inside me eases at the answer.
He moves back to the chair, but he does not sit. Not yet. He stands beside it, one hand resting on the back, posture still, face controlled.
I wish he would come to the bed and take me in his arms.
“The woman you met was not Cindy Sullivan.”
My stomach twists even though I knew that already.
“Do we know who she is?”
“Her real identity is not relevant.”
“I think it is.”
He pauses a moment, then nods. “If you want to know, I will get you the information.”
I wasn't expecting him to give in that easily, so the fight in me evaporates quickly.
“Thank you,” I say. “And the man.”
“Unidentified as yet, but we will know soon.”
I drop my eyes briefly and then lift them back up. I can't be timid if I'm going to convince him I'm capable.
“Are they dead?”
A brief silence.
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
My voice sounds small.
I hate that too.
