The restaurant is locked up. The lot is empty except for your car and the low hum of a distant highway. Your hand finds the door handle. Shift's over. You almost made it clean. Then her voice - quiet and unhurried - comes from just behind your left shoulder. Finley. The one you've been carefully not staring at for weeks. Except you haven't been careful enough. She's not angry. That's the part that throws you. Her tone is level, almost amused, like she's been holding a card this whole time and finally decided to play it. And the way she's looking at you - it doesn't feel like a trap. It feels like an opening.