The ordinary sounds of a charitable afternoon pushed against the ugly silence between us and failed to soften it.
Isla stepped outside.
The door closed behind her.
“What did he mean?” she asked.
Her voice was calm.
That was worse than anger.
I looked toward the parking exit first, checking instinctively for cameras, reporters, anyone lingering behind concrete pillars or inside parked cars. The lot seemed clear, but clear had stopped meaning safe.
“Not here.”
Her expression hardened. “Do not do that.”
“Isla—”
“No.” She walked closer, stopping several feet away. “Do not tell me what I can hear after I just listened to two men discuss my life like a business arrangement in a parking lot.”
The words hit where they belonged.
I swallowed. “He baited me.”
“He told the truth.”
“Part
