“Fine,” I say. “No arguing about whether cartoons count as educational programming.”
“They do,” Erin says.
“They do not,” Heath says.
I leave before breakfast becomes a federal case.
The café Victor chose is three blocks from the apartment, warm and overcrowded, full of laptops and people who look like they sleep eight hours because no one has ever tried to sell them. I spot him near the back, seated beneath a row of framed black-and-white city photographs with an espresso in front of him and a newspaper folded beside his hand.
He does wear an expensive coat indoors.
Heath may have a point.
Victor rises when I approach. He is handsome in the quiet, unsettling way of men who have spent years learning not to reveal much. His smile is polite. His eyes aren’t.
“Agent Reeves.”
“Maya is fine.”
“I know.”
“Then use it.”
He sits again. “You sound like Stefano.”
The name catches in my chest before I can stop it.
Victor notices. But, he says nothing about it.
A server appears, and I order coffee because I need something to hold. The menu is written in looping chalk across a wall behind the counter. There are pastries arranged beneath glass. Cinnamon rolls, almond croissants, tiny fruit tarts.
The smell of butter hits me first. Then sugar. Then something turns hard beneath my ribs. I look away too quickly. Victor is watching me.
I pick up the water glass in front of me. “You called this meeting. What did you want?”
He lets me have the redirect.
“The twins’ placement is moving through the final approvals.”
My fingers tighten around the glass.
“Victor and Alex?—”
“Are still committed,” he says. “Nothing has changed.”
I nod once, though my stomach twists anyway. I know this is right. I know they need a home that is not built on my unfinished life or borrowed FBI protection. Alex is steady. Victor is patient in the way Heath understands. They have a house with a yard, spare bedrooms, school districts, routines. All the things I can offer in pieces, and the reason this meeting matters.
All the things I can offer in pieces.
“They will still see me,” I say.
“Yes.”
“That was not a question.”
“No,” Victor says. “It was not.”
His voice softens slightly. “Maya, no one is taking them from you.”
