“You didn’t enjoy that at least, did you?”
There’s sharpness in it, but less than before.
“No.”
She lifts her eyes to mine.
I hold them and give her the truth because that’s the only thing that’s worked between us so far.
“I regret that it had to happen like that,” I say. “But I don’t regret making the situation clear.”
Her mouth tightens.
“They needed to know,” I continue.
She looks away first, toward the dark window over the sink.
For a second, I think she’s going to throw back something bitter. Something about fear tactics, or dramatic outsiders, or pitching my company.
Instead, she says quietly, “I knew there was a threat.”
I say nothing.
She keeps going, still looking toward the window.
“I knew this was different. I knew it was being taken more seriously. I’m not an idiot.”
“I don't think you are.”
Her laugh is small and humorless. “But I still didn’t think…” She stops.
I let the silence sit.
When she starts again, her voice is tighter. “I didn’t think that far.”
There it is.
The children.
"It's because you're a good person," I say. "You want to believe that there are lines nobody would cross."
Her gaze snaps back to me, dark and wounded.
“You say that like it’s a weakness.” Her words are clipped. Cold.
“It’s not a weakness,” I say. “It’s just wrong.”
Her anger is sharp enough now to cut the quiet. “Wrong? To believe that there’s some decency left in the world? To not immediately jump to the conclusion that someone would hurt babies?”
“Decency is the exception, not the rule, in our world,” I say. “In our families.”
“We’re not the same,” she snaps.
“Maybe not,” I concede. “But our enemies are.”
She glares at me.
I do not flinch away from it.
