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"You think there's more?"

"I think you're carrying guilt that doesn't belong to you. I think you're trying to fix something that can't be fixed by helping me. I think—" She pauses. Searches for words. "I think you need this as much as I do."

She's not wrong.

I've spent eight years looking for a chance to do things differently. To prove to myself that Elaine's death wasn't the inevitable outcome of my failure. That I could learn. Could change. Could be something other than the priest who chose the wrong words.

"Maybe," I admit. "Maybe I do need this. But that doesn't make helping you any less genuine."

"I know." She picks up her hot chocolate. Drains the last of it. "It's just strange. Being someone's redemption project."

"You're not a project. You're a person who needed help tonight and I happened to be there to give it." I signal Donna for the check. "What happens next is up to you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you have choices now. You can go back to your apartment and pretend this didn't happen. You can call your family and ask for help. You can file a police report and press charges. You can disappear and start over somewhere new." I hold her gaze. "Or you can let me help you figure out which option is safest."

"And if I choose wrong?"

"There's no wrong choice. Just different paths with different consequences."

Donna appears with the check before Paige can respond. I grab it before she can reach for it.

"I've got it," I say.

"Gabriel…"

"You just lost your boyfriend and probably your job if Cole decides to make trouble. Let me buy you pancakes."

She doesn't argue. Just sits there looking exhausted and uncertain and more vulnerable than I've seen her yet.

I pay at the register. Donna gives me a look that says she knows exactly what happened tonight and approves of my handling of it.

"You take care of her," she whispers.

"That's the plan."

"Good boy." She squeezes my arm. "Come back soon."

We walk out into the November cold. The parking lot is nearly empty now, just our sedan and a pickup truck that probably belongs to the cook.

Paige wraps her arms around herself. She's still wearing her work polo. No jacket. No sweater. Nothing to protect against the temperature that's dropped into the forties.

I shrug off my hoodie and hand it to her.

"I'm fine," she protests.

"You're shivering. Put it on."

She takes it. Pulls it over her head. It's massive on her, sleeves hanging past her hands, hem reaching mid-thigh.

"What now?" she asks.

Good question. I got her out of the parking lot. Got her fed. Got her somewhere safe for a few hours.

But eventually we have to leave this diner and face reality.

"Now," I say slowly, "we figure out where you're sleeping tonight."