Elias tried to pretend he wasn’t rattled, but the quiet that settled between them felt tight, like a bowstring pulled back and waiting for release.

  Seraphine closed her book halfway, fingers resting lightly against the crease. Her eyes stayed on the page when she spoke.

  “It’s okay,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Maybe you’re just stressed.”

  Elias let out a dry breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Seraphine tipped her chin up, voice light and casual, like she was asking about weather or traffic.

  “Another murder?”

  The question landed like a pebble dropped into still water.

  Elias froze mid-sip, the taste of coffee going metallic on his tongue.

  Her timing was too exact.

  Too smooth.

  But he forced his breath steady and nodded once.

  “This morning,” he said carefully. “A man.”

  Seraphine blinked, her expression unchanged.

  “Ah. How terrible.”

  No widening eyes.

  No startled flinch.

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  Just a quiet statement—not cold, not cruel, simply… distant.

  Elias noted the lack of reaction.

  He told himself it made sense.

  A girl who had already lived through something like Dr. Alano wouldn’t startle easily at the word dead anymore.

  He should’ve stopped there.

  But the words slipped out on instinct.

  “He was killed,” he added, evenly.

  “Not an accident.”

  “For?”

  Her voice was soft, but this time she looked directly at him.

  Elias met her eyes.

  Seraphine’s lips curved—barely there—an expression too small to name, too steady to be innocence, too mild to be joy.

  “Wrong timing,” he said.

  The words hung between them.

  Their eyes locked, and the moment sharpened.

  Not predator.

  Not prey.

  Just two quiet figures, breathing in the same space, each holding more truth than either was willing to set on the table.

  No blinking.

  No retreat.

  Only stillness stretched taut enough to hum.

  Elias didn’t explain what he meant.

  Seraphine didn’t ask.

  The silence thickened—

  Riiiiing.

  Elias jolted slightly, hand already reaching for his phone.

  “Rivas,” he answered, voice snapping back to duty.

  A clipped voice crackled through—orders, urgency, the world tugging him away.

  He pushed back his chair and stood.

  “Sorry—I’ve got to go.”

  Seraphine nodded once.

  “Of course.”

  He hesitated—a fraction too long—then turned and walked out, the bell above the café door chiming a soft farewell.

  Seraphine watched the door swing shut behind him.

  The coffee shop’s murmur rushed in to fill the space he left.

  She exhaled slowly, her shoulders loosening.

  Her gaze drifted to the tall window beside her.

  Outside, the weekend crowd moved past in calm currents, and through the shifting figures she spotted him—broad shoulders, familiar stance, walking without caution.

  Marco.

  Only he wasn’t alone.

  His arm draped over a woman’s waist—comfortable, claimed, normal.

  Beside them, a little girl skipped along the sidewalk, ribbons bouncing in her hair, laughing at something her father murmured.

  A picture-perfect scene: happy family, Sunday sunshine, no shadows.

  The kind of man strangers trusted.

  The kind of man neighbors praised.

  The kind of man who looked safe.

  Seraphine’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping once near her cheek.

  Then a scoff slipped out—small, humorless—and a thin smile followed.

  Of course he had a family.

  Men like him always reinvented themselves.

  New life layered neatly over old sins.

  She lifted her cup, took a slow sip, savoring the warmth.

  Her hunger hadn’t faded.

  It had simply grown sharper, truer.