Rebecca.
I let it ring out. Then she texted.Please. I know you hate me. But he told me things about your dad, and if I were you, I’d want to hear them.
That did it.
I typed one line.
Tomorrow. 11 a.m. Carmel Coffee Roasters. Come alone.
Her reply came instantly.
I will.
I barely slept.
At ten fifty-five the next morning, I walked into the coffee shop and saw her immediately.
Without the hair and makeup and the borrowed confidence, she looked younger. Not innocent—life had already polished that possibility out of her—but younger. Tired. Her eyes were swollen. She wore a black turtleneck and jeans and no crystals. Good.
She stood when I approached, then sat back down when she realized I wasn’t going to hug her, throw coffee at her, or perform any of the scenes she probably feared and deserved.
I took the chair opposite hers.
The place smelled like espresso and cinnamon scones. Milk steamed behind the counter with little angry screams. A couple in bike helmets argued over almond milk near the pastry case. Normal life everywhere. It felt obscene.
“You have five minutes,” I said.
She flinched. “Okay.”
She slid a manila envelope across the table.
I didn’t touch it yet. “Start talking.”