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“Yes,” I said.

She looked down at the camera bag.

“I kept telling myself that holding it was different from using it. Like, there was some clean ethical line between wanting it, retaining it, and acting on the want.”

“Was there?”

“No.” She looked back at me. “There was a delay, and a file I should have deleted or brought to you. That is all.”

The rink was quiet around us.

A compressor kicked on somewhere under the floor. The sound moved through the boards and into my legs.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I hate feeling responsible for hurting you, but that is not the point. I made a choice I knew I should not have made, and then I let the system get close enough to finish what I started.”

I breathed in through my nose.

Out slowly.

Truth did not always help. Sometimes it only removed the places you had been hiding.

“I believe you,” I said.

Her eyes changed.

Not relief.

Something smaller.

“That does not mean I am fine,” I said.

“I know.”

“Good.”

She gave a short nod. “Good. Yes. I mean, not good. But good that you said it.”

For the first time since she walked in, the corner of my mouth moved.

She saw it and looked away, like the almost-smile had cost her something.

I let the quiet sit for a few seconds.

Then I said the part I had come here to say.

“I haven’t called Mark yet.”

Her attention snapped back.

“About Seattle?”

“About here. About what happens next.”

She held still.

“I am going to tell him Seattle is not the answer just because it is the biggest number. I am going to tell him to start with San Antonio and see what is still there.”

The words sounded different outside my head.