"Two days."
"Payment through the usual channel?"
The family's payment route, the one that moves through three shell companies before reaching its destination. Using it means the payment will register where my father can see it. My father will see it. My father will know exactly what I purchased and for whom.
"Yes," I say.
The call lasts ninety seconds.
When it ends, I set the phone on the counter and stand there with my hand still open beside it. The kitchen is quiet enough for the draft under the door to sound like breathing.
I go back to bed and slide in beside Maya.
She shifts, murmurs, and presses her palm to my chest, directly over my heart. Then she settles again, trusting my body in her sleep while the call I made still burns under my skin.
My stomach turns.
Her palm warms my skin, and I have to keep my breathing even so I don't move away from it. Cole reaches across her body and laces his fingers through mine. His grip is steady, heavy, familiar.
I close my eyes.
Sleep doesn't come.
Thursday, the legal plan continues.
Richard sends the hearing confirmation. Next Wednesday. Six days. The evidence packet is strong: Gio's parole research, Clara's Title IX filing, the documented escalation pattern, the letters. Richard is confident. Richard says the case is moving.
Cole catches me in the hallway after lunch.
His hand closes around my arm. His eyes move over my face, my shoulders, the set of my mouth, the quiet inventorythat strips me down faster than anyone else's interrogation ever could.
"You look like you haven't slept in two days," he says.
"I slept."
"You slept the way Maya sleeps. With one eye checking the perimeter." His grip tightens on my arm. "What's going on?"
"Nothing. The hearing's Wednesday. Richard's confident."
He watches me.
Still watching, he searches for the thing I'm hiding the same way he'd search for a gap in a defensive line. My eyes drop to his hand on my arm for half a second before I catch myself and bring them back to his face.
Half a second is enough. His fingers tighten once on my arm before he stills them.
"D," he says. "Whatever you're carrying. Share it."
"I'm fine."
"You're performing fine." His hand stays on my arm, steady and waiting. "I can tell the difference."
I can't tell him. Telling him means telling him what I did at 2 AM.
"Wednesday," I say. "After the hearing. When the legal plan resolves. I'll tell you everything."
"Everything?"
"Everything."
