“I’m a grad student who needs money,” she replied. “This job pays. End of story.”
“Where do you go to school?” I watched her carefully.
“Ottawa.”
“And where did you grow up?” I fired the questions fast, not wanting to give her too much time to think.
She hesitated just long enough for me to notice.
“A few hours away from here,” she said finally.
That landed harder than I expected. Close enough to know how things worked here. Close enough to know names.
“Pack your things,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I said. “Cabin needs to be empty by tonight.”
She stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. “You can’t do that.”
“I can.”
“No,” she said, voice shaking now. “You’re doing this because you don’t like that I ask questions.”
“I’m doing this because you’re playing with fire and don’t even realize it.”
Her composure cracked.
“You don’t get to decide that,” she said fiercely. “You don’t get to control who I am or what I’m doing.”
I leaned in. “You don’t know what you’re poking at.”
“I do,” she said.
The word was soft. Certain. And suddenly, the bar felt too small.
“Come on,” I said. “We’re not doing this in here.”
She stiffened. “I don’t know you well enough to go anywhere alone with you.”
I barked a humorless laugh. “You’re living on my land. In one of my cabins. Working for me. You know me enough.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Public,” she said. “We stay where people can see us.”
“Fine,” I said. “My truck’s right outside.”
She followed me out into the cool night air, arms crossed tight over her chest. I stopped beside the truck but didn’t open the door.
“Talk,” I said.
She exhaled shakily. “You’re right. I didn’t come here for just the job.”
No kidding.
“My best friend disappeared six years ago,” she said. “She was last seen near here in Val-Du-Lys.”