“You think they followed us,” she says.
“I think they’re deciding,” I say. “Whether to move tonight or wait.”
She watches the courtyard.
“Or maybe no one’s out there,” she says.
“Maybe.”
“You’re not sleeping.”
“I will.”
“You’re pacing.”
I walk to the counter and pour a glass of water. I leave it there.
“We need to talk about tomorrow,” she says.
“We already did.”
“No,” she says. “You told me what you’re doing. That’s not the same thing.”
I lean back against the counter and fold my arms.
“You’re not coming.”
Her mouth tightens. She stands, slow and controlled, like she’s choosing her ground.
“That house was mine before it was yours,” she says. “Before it was anyone’s. I know where Markov kept things. I know which rooms he trusted and which ones he staged. You don’t.”
“I know the risks,” I say.
“So do I,” she answers. “That’s why I should be there.”
I step closer and lower my voice. “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t.”
Her eyes flash. “You think I don’t understand danger?”
“I think,” I say carefully, “that if I lose you, I don’t get to pretend I can still do this.”
She absorbs it without blinking.
“And if something happens to you,” she says, “what do you think happens to Mila?”
That stops me.
“You disappear into that house alone, and you don’t come back,” she continues, “I don’t get a body. I don’t get answers. I get men circling again. I get her asking why her father isn’t home.”
I turn away before she can see my face tighten.
“I’m not sidelining you,” I say. “I’m protecting what we have left.”
Her hand hits my chest.
Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to mean something.
“I’m not what’s left,” she says. “I’m part of this.”
