Daniel leaned against the counter, his limbs suddenly lacking the strength to support him.

“Go to her,” Quentin said.

His head popped up. “Are you crazy? She would probably run me through with a knife.”

“I’m sure she would feel justified in doing so,” Quentin said with a nod. “Just take the stab and keep going. Explain as much as you can without jeopardizing the case. Like I said, if it’s real, you’ll get past this. Remember the story I told you about how my wife and I met? You think it started out all sunshine and roses?”

“I’m guessing that’s a no?”

“That’s a hell no.” Quentin glanced down at his chest. “There are a few cuts under these clothes.”

Daniel managed to crack the first hint of a smile he had been able to muster in the last twenty-four hours. “This is probably a bad idea,” he said.

“What would be worse? Her slamming the door in your face—after spitting in your face,” Quentin said. “Or you leaving Austin without ever speaking to her? Are you prepared for how shitty that will feel when the numbness wears off in a few days? If you think you hate yourself now, you have no idea what you’re in store for. Go to her,” he repeated.

He was right. Daniel knew he couldn’t leave without making at least one attempt to talk to Samiah. But, if he did, he would have to give up this twisted sense of comfort he’d found in speculating whether she hated him. Wouldn’t it be easier to always wonder rather than go to her and have it confirmed?

Fucking coward.

Exhaling a weary breath, he pushed away from the counter. Quentin did the same.

“I’ll more than likely be out of here by the time you get back,” he said. He set his drink down and held out a hand.

Daniel took it and pulled him in for a one-armed hug. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

“Thanks for introducing me to the Wu-Tang Clan.”

“It’s a tragedy that you’re just discovering them, but better late than never.”

Quentin tapped him on the back. “Good luck. You’ve got my number if you’re ever in the San Antonio office.”

Daniel left him in the same place he usually found him, on the sofa surrounded by documents. He hopped onto the MoPac Expressway to avoid the traffic lights of Lamar Boulevard, but got off at the next exit after crawling for a full twenty minutes in bumper-to-bumper traffic. By the time he made it to Samiah’s, the sun had started to set, reflecting streaks of saffron and magenta off her building’s sleek glass windows.