The interrogation goes quicker than I expected—the same blonde officer who called Julian in asks me to confirm details about what I remember, the timeline of events, and what exactly I saw from where I was crouched behind that candy rack. She types while I talk, nodding occasionally, her expression professionally neutral. When we're done, she thanks me for my cooperation and tells me I did the right thing by staying calm during the incident. On my way out, she hands me a glossy pamphlet, the kind that's been folded and unfolded too many times, the creases soft and worn.
Support Group for Victims of Violent Crime
Portland. Thursdays at seven.
Like I'd drive all the way to Portland for—
Julian's still in the waiting room.
Standing. Waiting.
For me?
"Hey." He shifts his weight, hands in his pockets. "You hungry? There's a deli across the street. Thought maybe we could talk?"
My pulse kicks up, heat flooding my chest and crawling up my neck. My heart hammers against my ribs, loud enough that I'm sure he can hear it in this quiet room.
I know I shouldn't.
But of course I do.
"Yeah. I'd like that,” I say, knowing I’ve just leaned into this thing between us.
I’ve walked down the path.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The deli smells like fresh bread and roasted coffee. Sunlight pours through the windows, making everything warm and golden. We slide into a booth near the back, the orange club chairs swallowing us up.
Julian wraps his hands around his coffee mug. Those long fingers, those silver rings catching the light.
"So…” He meets my eyes.
God, those eyes. Dark and deep, framed by lashes that go on forever. Soulful doesn't even cover it—like he's lived a hundred lives and remembers every one. I could drown in them.
Stop it, Liza.
"So…” I echo, gripping my own mug.
He's studying me too, gaze tracing my face, and I wonder what he sees. My too-big eyes, my pin-straight black hair, my caramel skin. Is he disappointed? Am I his type? Does he even have a type?
He's definitely mine.
"That night—" His voice drops lower. "I keep replaying it. How terrified I was."
"You seemed so calm."
"Had to be. For Emmy. For you." He shakes his head. "But inside? I was freaking out."
"Me too." I lean forward. "I'm really glad you were there."
"Same. I mean—" He pauses, something shifting in his expression. "Despite how horrible it was, I'm glad it let me meet you."
The air changes. Charged.
Dangerous.
My stomach flips, and I force myself to breathe.
