"I know. But you need to."
He brought the mug to me, careful not to get too close, and set it on the table beside the couch.
"Drink it slowly. Small sips."
"Matt."
"Yeah?"
"Aren't you going to ask me what I meant? About killing someone?"
"Do you want me to ask?"
"I don't know."
"Then I won't."
He sat in the chair across from me, the same chair he'd sat in before, not too close, not too far.
"When you're ready to talk, I'll listen. Until then, I'll just... be here."
"Why?"
"Because everyone needs someone to be there. Even when they don't know how to ask for it."
The tea was warm.
I drank it slowly, small sips, the way he'd told me to. The chamomile was sweet, honeyed, and it settled in my stomach like something soft.
Matt didn't push.
He sat in his chair and read a newspaper—an actual newspaper, the kind with pages that rustled when he turned them—and he didn't look at me, not directly, not in a way that made me feel watched.
"Matt."
"Yeah?"
"I don't have any clothes. Just the ones I'm wearing."
He looked up from his newspaper.
"The ones with the blood?"
"Yes."
"We should get you some new ones."
"I don't have any money."
"I'll front you. You can pay me back out of your tips."
"I don't know what kind of clothes to get."
He folded his newspaper and set it aside.
"Then we'll figure it out together."
The mall was loud.
