Sherry turned fully toward me. Her fingers stayed resting on the spine of the book, as if she needed that solid anchor of leather and paper to steady herself.
Her expression was composed on the surface—cool, intelligent, controlled—but underneath it burned that specific intensity of someone who had already decided she wanted the truth and was simply waiting for me to hand it over.
"Tell me everything," she said softly, her voice low enough that it felt intimate in the quiet of the stacks.
"Let's sit first," I said.
We found the desk in the corner. Sherry crossed her legs and looked at me with the patient attention of someone who had already cleared space in her head for whatever was coming.
"What have you put yourself into?" she asked. The concern in her voice was real. Not performed. Sherry didn't perform concern.
