She cleared her throat. “How long have I been out?”

“A while. I grabbed some food. Got you a few things from the store across the street if you want something clean to wear. Like sweatshirts and stuff.”

Playing the gentleman card sounded like a solid plan earlier, now it felt fake and foolish. Normal information-eliciting tactics weren’t appropriate, and he had no idea how to proceed with her.

This was why Jared never paired him one-on-one with the untrained or the guiltless. Winters didn’t have a careful touch, and he was unsuccessful when he tried. Case in point. Mia acted beyond apprehensive as she picked at her dirt-streaked sweater and pants.

“So…” He turned to the table. “Food? Clothes?”

“I’m starving.” Her tongue ran over her lips. Maybe he should have bought some lip gloss or something like that. Women liked that stuff. Needed it. Didn’t they? He blew out a frustrated puff.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so we have everything from peanut butter and jelly makings to fried chicken, but it’s not hot anymore. And candy. I have a bad candy habit. Though I’m more than willing to share if you promise to stop kicking me for the rest of our trip.”

She tucked her legs beneath her and inched toward the shabby spread on the table. “Thanks, Mister—”

“Just call me Winters.” He needed something to do with his hands. All of the sudden, his arms were gangly and awkward. He stuck his thumbs in his pockets.

She nodded, slid off the bed. After two glances over her shoulder, she made a plate of food using a pile of napkins. She conjured images of movie nights and Sunday pot roast dinners. Safe, responsible activities non-operatives did in their normal lives. A tightness in his throat surfaced as he tried to swallow away confusion.

“You ready to answer some questions for me now, Mia?”

“Not really.”

“We could start simple.”

“I’d rather just eat.” She polished off her sandwich and picked up a drumstick.

“The airport. Why were you there? Hell, how did you know where to go?”

Something changed in her. And just that fast, he regretted pushing her. The fresh color painting her face was gone. Her fingers tore at the chicken. She stared at him with sad eyes. “You said my client is, and I said my client was. You said owns, I said owned.”

“So you aren’t working together anymore?”

“He’s dead.”

Her reaction hurt to watch. Heartbreak. Fallen eyes. Aching tonality. The corner of her eyes pinched, and she swallowed a few times. She needed comforting, an emotional poultice. Both were things he knew zip about. Why was it so hard to conjure up a soothing word? Nothing came to mind. He didn’t know how. He fell back on what he knew. Interrogation.

“How’d he die?” He worried he’d just made her pain worse.

“They say he killed himself. But he wasn’t suicidal. He was scared for his life.”

“How would you know that?”