The bath was supposed to calm her down.
She stood under the water longer than she needed to, soaping her arms, her shoulders, her legs, the motions automatic while her thoughts refused to settle. The casino replayed itself anyway. The noise. The lights. The way she'd laughed too easily. The way she'd let herself forget who she was for a few hours.
She shook her head under the spray.
That wasn't her.
And now Malcolm was mad. Not openly. Not in a way she could argue with. Just quiet, closed, and that was worse.
She finished, dried off, pulled on her clothes.
When she stepped into the room, Malcolm was already on the bed.
Clean. Calm. Reading.
The same book again.
She paused, then crossed the room and sat beside him, close enough to feel the mattress dip but not touching.
"So," she said, testing the space between them, "what's that book?"
He didn't look up. "The Rose's Trap."
