Darlene exhales smoke. “It was a good line.”
“It was a very bad tactical choice,” I say.
Evie’s laugh comes out broken. “Yeah, well. I was angry.”
“What did he do then?”
Her gaze drifts to the shattered display case. “He smiled. Told them to educate me.”
I turn.
Renn takes one step back without meaning to.
Evie catches my wrist.
Her hand cannot close all the way around me. Her fingers press against my sleeve, small and warm, and I stop because she asks with touch what words would not accomplish.
“Don’t,” she says.
The single word drags air through my lungs like wire.
“They destroyed your shop.”
“I know.”
“They threatened you.”
“I know.”
“They will return.”
Her fingers tighten. “I know.”
I look down at her. “Then you know what must happen.”
“No, I know what you think must happen.”
Darlene stubs out her cigarette with savage pressure. “Before whatever masculine disaster is about to unfold, can somebody help me get the power off that display case? It’s still sparking, and I’d prefer not to die flambéed by pastry glass.”
“I will do it,” I say.
“Good. Be useful before homicidal.”
Evie releases my wrist slowly.
The loss of her touch makes me angrier, which is not fair to anyone.
I move to the display case, kneel, and examine the damage. The outer glass has shattered inward, ruining three trays of pastries and exposing the cooling coils. A cracked power conduit spits pale blue sparks against the metal frame. I disconnect the feed, pull the backup cell, and crush the damaged connector closed so no one can accidentally reactivate it.
The work gives my hands something to do other than violence.
Not enough. But something.
Darlene watches over my shoulder. “That fixable?”
“Yes.”
“Expensive?”
