It felt like a small victory. The three of us—strange and jagged as that fact was—were aligned on the threat. For a few hours cooperation felt like a clean thing, not a strategic ploy. There were even moments of quiet talk that felt startlingly domestic: Angel describing her flight, Conley telling a dry anecdote about negotiation, me laughing at a private joke. We had manufactured a momentary island of normal.
Yet evening brought its own pressure. After the staff left, Conley and I were alone again. He moved near me with a focus that was both hungry and protective. “I want you with me tonight,” he murmured. “No interruptions. No… attempts at provocation.”
“I don’t want to be bait,” I said. The words were blunt. The photograph and the email had shifted me from performance to defensive pos
