Chapter 19: Road to the Valley
The three-hour drive into the Central Valley was a purgatory of brown fields and billboards for personal injury lawyers. Jennifer drove, her knuckles white on the wheel. The silence between her and David was a third passenger, sprawling across the backseat. It wasn’t the easy quiet of before. This was charged, brittle, loaded with everything from the warehouse: the aborted kiss, the terrible choice, Ruiz’s furious disappointment.
“Exit 43,” David said, not looking up from the case file on his lap. His voice was professionally neutral. He’d been like that all morning in Ruiz’s office during the brutal debrief—all facts, no emotion, a steel wall between them. It should have been a relief. It pissed her off.
She took the exit. The town of Agua Dulce announced itself with a defunct gas station and a water tower shaped like a giant peach. The air, when she cracked the window, smelled of hot asphalt and distant manure. The address for the shell company, “Golden State Agri-Processing,” was a single-story cinderblock warehouse on the edge of a dusty almond orchard. It looked abandoned.
It wasn’t. The county clerk’s office, a stuffy room that smelled of old paper and lemon disinfectant, told a different story. A bored clerk with magnificent purple nails pulled the files.
“Oh, they’re active,” she said, sliding a thin folder across the counter. “Least, the taxes get paid. From a P.O. box in Reno. Never seen anyone from the company, though. The trucking licenses get renewed like clockwork. Two eighteen-wheelers.”
“What do they process?” David asked, leaning on the counter, offering a smile that usually worked.
The clerk shrugged. “Dunno. Says ‘agricultural commodities.’ Beans, nuts, whatever’s growing. They ship out, mostly at night from what old man Garza says. He’s the caretaker at the orchard next door. Hates the noise.”
They found Garza on a porch swing, shelling peas into a colander. He was a wiry man in his seventies with eyes clouded by cataracts but a sharp memory. “Twice a month, regular as a preacher’s sin,” he grumbled, not stopping his work. “Middle of the damn night. Big rigs, white, no markings. They’re in and out in an hour. Don’t like headlights. Use these little blue work lights inside the bay. Real quiet for loadin’ a truck.”
“What do they load?” Jennifer pressed.
“Couldn’t tell you. Don’t go snufflin’ around other folks’ business. But it ain’t almonds.” He pointed a gnarled finger toward the silent warehouse. “You get a feeling. Ain’t right. Men who work there don’t wave. Don’t come to the diner. Like ghosts.”
By five PM, they had what they needed: records, a pattern, a witness. Enough for a warrant, maybe, if a judge liked hunches and the testimony of an old man who believed in feelings. It was a thread. After the debacle at the Acama Street warehouse, it was all they had.
“We should stay,” David said, shading his eyes against the low, brutal sun. “If the pattern holds, a shipment could go tonight. We can observe, get plate numbers, confirm activity for the warrant.”
Jennifer knew he was right. Calling it in would mean waiting for local units, who’d likely spook the operation. It meant more time alone with him. “Fine. We’ll find a place.”
The place was the Siesta Motel, a U-shaped strip of peeling aqua doors set back from the two-lane highway. The vacancy sign buzzed, a lone pink letter flickering. The room Jennifer was given reeked of decades of cigarette smoke trapped beneath a too-sweet layer of cheap motel soap. The wallpaper was a faded riot of yellow flowers. The bedspread was a synthetic burnt orange, its surface slick to the touch. A single flickering neon sign outside her window—a cocktail glass with a palm tree—cast a sickly, rhythmic glow across everything, staining the room in pulses of garish pink and green.
David’s room was two doors down. They parted without a word.
At seven, there was a knock. He stood there, changed into a clean black t-shirt and jeans. “There’s a steakhouse down the road. We should eat. Unless you’re planning on a vending machine dinner.”
The steakhouse was a faux-wood-paneled cave with red vinyl booths and the smell of grilled meat and fryer grease. It was surprisingly full of families and tired-looking couples. They were seated in a corner booth. A basket of warm rolls appeared. For a while, they just ate, the shared, mundane act dismantling some of the day’s rigidity.
“Garza’s a good witness,” David said, sawing into a tough sirloin. “His ‘feeling’ will sell better to a judge than a hundred pages of financials. Cops understand feelings.”
“Ruiz doesn’t,” Jennifer muttered, sipping her iced tea. “He understands results. We don’t have one.”
“We will.” He looked at her then, really looked, for the first time all day. The professional mask had slipped, revealing the man beneath—tired, determined, intimately familiar. “We made the right call, Jennifer. Letting him walk. Anyone in that room would have done the same.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.” She pushed her green beans around the plate. “Doesn’t make it taste any better.”
“Nothing about this job tastes good. You know that.” He leaned back, studying her. “You called your priest last night.”
It wasn’t a question. She felt caught. “Yeah.”
“Get the absolution you were looking for?”
The question was sharp, meant to cut. She met his gaze. “I was checking in with my boyfriend. It’s called being in a relationship.”
“Must be nice.” He signaled the waitress for the check, the moment broken. “Having that kind of anchor. Something pure to go home to.”
Back at the motel, the silence descended again, heavier now. Jennifer took a long, unbearably hot shower in the cramped stall, trying to scrub away the smell of the road and the steakhouse and the lingering intensity of his gaze. She put on clean sleep clothes—a thin tank top and soft shorts—and tried to read a case report on her phone. The words blurred.
Her mind replayed it, relentlessly. The dust of the factory. The warmth of his shoulder against hers. The dare in his voice. Daring you to kiss me already. The inch of space that had felt like a chasm and a paradise. Her own pathetic, predictable lean. The buzzing phone that had saved her, or ruined everything.
She’d almost cheated. Not in body, but in spirit, in absolute intention. The guilt was a cold, smooth stone in her gut. Julian’s voice on the phone last night had been so kind, so good. She was a cliché waiting to happen, and David Paqueta was the punchline.
A soft knock at the door.
Her breath hitched. The neon light pulsed: pink… green… pink…
She knew who it was.
She considered not answering. She could pretend to be asleep. She could turn off the light, lie still in the garish dark, and wait for him to go away.
She didn’t.
She padded to the door and looked through the peephole. He was distorted, a fish-eye view of a man holding two glasses of amber liquid, the motel’s plastic ice bucket tucked under his arm. He was looking down, then back up, his expression unreadable.
Her hand was on the knob before her brain fully consented. She opened the door just enough.
He didn’t smile. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought you might want a nightcap. The motel ‘honor bar’ is a bottle of bottom-shelf whiskey in the office. I liberated it.”
She just stared at him, at the glasses, at the casual way he stood there as if this were normal. “This is a really bad idea, David.”
“I know.” He didn’t move. “It’s just a drink. We’re colleagues. We’ve had a long day. We’re waiting on a possible surveillance op. It’s what colleagues do.”
The lie was so transparent it was almost charming. He was daring her again. Not with words this time. With presence. With the simple, tangible offering of a shared moment in the ugly, intimate dark.
She was so tired of being good. Tired of the calculations, the guilt, the measured choices. The cold stone of remorse in her gut felt suddenly hot, a molten pull toward the flame.
She stepped back, opening the door wider. “One drink.”
He walked in, his shoulder brushing hers in the narrow space. He set the ice bucket on the chipped dresser, dropped a few cubes into each glass, and poured a generous measure of whiskey from the bottle. He handed her one.
Their fingers touched. The ice crackled.
He didn’t sit on the bed. He leaned against the dresser, facing her. She stayed near the door, as if planning an escape. The room was so small the distance was meaningless.
“To pragmatic choices,” he said, raising his glass. His dark eyes held hers in the pulsating light.
“To not getting fired,” she countered, and took a sip. The whiskey was terrible, sharp and burning, but it spread a welcome heat through her chest.
He chuckled, a low, genuine sound. “Always a worthy toast.” He took a longer drink, his eyes never leaving her. The casual pretense was gone, stripped away by the quiet and the cheap alcohol and the weight of everything unsaid. “I thought about that almost-kiss all day,” he said, his voice quieter now. “The intercom buzz. The way you pulled back. You looked… relieved.”
“I was.”
“Were you?” He took a step away from the dresser, just one, closing the already minimal distance. “Or were you just scared?”
The air thickened, became something you had to move through. The smell of old smoke and his clean soap and the whiskey filled her lungs. She could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the precise line of his collar bone above the neckline of his shirt. The memory of Florida wasn’t a memory anymore; it was a physical echo in her hands, her mouth.
“Scared of what?” she asked, her voice a husk.
“Of how much you wanted it. Of how little you’d have to pretend with me.” Another step. He was close enough now that she could feel the heat coming off him. “With him… it’s peace, right? Stability. Something pure, away from all this dirt. With me, it’s just more dirt. But it’s honest dirt, Jennifer. You don’t have to sanitize yourself. I’ve already seen the blood on your hands. I have the same blood on mine.”
His words were a key turning in a lock deep inside her. He was right. Julian represented a life she aspired to, a clean slate. David was the mirror reflecting the person she actually was: sharp, compromised, thriving in the grit.
She didn’t move away. She took another swallow of whiskey, the burn mirroring the one in her chest. “This is crossing a line.”
“We crossed that line in a Florida hotel room twelve months ago,” he said softly. He reached out, not for her, but to take her empty glass. His fingers brushed hers again, a deliberate touch. He set both glasses on the nightstand. The click was final.
When he turned back, he didn’t touch her. He just waited, his eyes asking the question his voice didn’t have to.
The neon sign strobed: pink… green… pink…
She thought of Julian’s gentle voice. She thought of the Accountant’s cold, dismissive eyes. She thought of the eleven women on the warehouse floor, alive because of the terrible choice she and this man had made together.
Her resistance didn’t shatter. It dissolved, like sugar in hot liquid, leaving something clear and potent in its wake.
She closed the last inch between them.
This kiss was nothing like the almost-kiss. There was no tease, no dare, no interruption. It was a collision, an acknowledgment, a surrender. His mouth was hot, tasting of whiskey and resolve. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking her jawline, possessive and tender all at once. A sound escaped her, a muffled thing against his lips, part defeat, part triumph.
He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed. They sank onto the slick, synthetic spread, a tangle of limbs and desperate, searching hands. There were no more words, no more professional boundaries, no more thoughts of boyfriends or captains or escaped criminals. There was only this: the ugly, pulsating light, the smell of decay and desire, and the profound, terrifying rightness of being known, completely, by someone just as broken and brilliant as she was.
There was only this: the ugly, pulsating light, the smell of decay and desire, and the profound, terrifying rightness of being known, completely, by someone just as broken and brilliant as she was.
He kissed her senseless.
His mouth was relentless, a demanding heat that erased every other thought. She moaned into him, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him down until she was flat on the burnt-orange spread. The room tilted. His fingers, always so precise, found the hem of her tank top and pushed it up. The cool, stale air hit her skin a second before his hands did. He ripped the thin fabric away, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Her bra followed, a simple clasp undone with a practiced twist.
He buried his face between her breasts with a groan that vibrated through her ribs.
His mouth was hot and urgent on her skin. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking deep, and the sensation was a live wire straight to her core. She arched off the bed, a choked gasp escaping her. The thought arrived, unbidden and vicious: Julian was in Arizona right now, serving meals at a shelter, his hands clean, his heart untroubled. Blissfully unaware. And here she was, letting this man consume her in a room that stank of sin. The guilt flashed and then melted under a stronger, more immediate wave of physical bliss.
He didn’t linger. His mouth traced a burning path down her stomach. He nuzzled the soft skin of her midriff, his stubble a delicious abrasion, and she moaned again, her fingers tangling in his hair. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her shorts and her underwear, pulling them down in one rough, efficient motion. The neon glow painted her bare skin pink, then green.
There was no more hesitation, no space for doubt. It was a collision of memory and need, a frantic, wordless conversation of skin and breath. It was raunchy, and hot, and exactly what she’d been trying to forget since Florida. It was the warehouse’s interrupted promise, fulfilled. The motel walls were thin; they didn’t care. The headboard tapped a erratic rhythm against the cinderblock. Her world narrowed to the weight of him, the sweat-slick press of his chest against hers, the exact point where they joined. It was mind-blowing in its sheer, uncomplicated physicality—a raw reset for all the tension that had built since the Acama Street factory.
Time lost meaning. It was measured in shuddering breaths and desperate grips.
Finally, spent, they collapsed in a heap on the ruined sheets. The pink-green light strobed over their tangled legs. Her heart hammered against his back. She could smell them both on the bedding. They didn’t speak. Sleep took them, heavy and deep, in that same knot.
Gray dawn light replaced the neon, washing the room in a dull, honest pallor. She woke to the sensation of lips trailing down the knobs of her spine. A slow, tender exploration. She stretched, a low hum in her throat.
“We should do this more often,” David murmured, his voice gravelly with sleep. His mouth continued its path.
She chuckled, the sound rusty. “You have impressive stamina for an older guy.”
He bit her shoulder lightly, a playful punctuation. “Older guy?” He shifted, his body aligning against hers again. “You kept moaning my name last night. Repeatedly. ‘David’ doesn’t sound like a complaint to me.”
Heat flushed across her cheeks. She rolled slightly to playfully swat his arm. “Shut up.”
He just nuzzled the sensitive spot below her ear, making her shiver. “Just stating facts, detective.”
With a sigh, she slipped from his grasp and out of the bed. The carpet was rough under her bare feet. She found her tank top on the floor and pulled it on, not bothering with anything else, and padded to the small counter where the cheap coffee maker sat. She focused on the ritual: filling the carafe with water from the bathroom tap, tearing open a packet of bitter motel coffee.
She could feel his eyes on her.
He was propped up on one elbow, the sheet pooled at his waist, watching her move. The scrutiny was palpable, a physical touch. She smiled to herself, not turning, and raised an amused eyebrow over her shoulder as she scooped the grounds. “See something you like?”
“I’m just admiring the view,” he said, his tone utterly unrepentant. “I hit the jackpot in this dump.”
The coffee began to drip, its acidic scent cutting through the room’s other smells. As she stood waiting, he slid from the bed. She felt him approach before his hands settled on her hips. He pressed a kiss to the corner of her jaw, then nuzzled into her neck, his arms wrapping around her waist.
She leaned back into him with a soft moan, closing her eyes for a second, allowing herself this stolen, quiet point of contact. His lips moved from her jaw to the sensitive curve of her neck, planting slow, open-mouthed kisses that made her fingers tighten on the counter’s edge. The coarse stubble on his chin was a sharp, perfect contrast to the softness of his mouth.
“What are you doing?” she breathed, the question half-lost in a sigh.
He chuckled, a low vibration against her skin. “Just having some fun with my partner.” His hands slid from her hips to her stomach, pulling her back flush against him. She felt the firm, insistent pressure of his erection through his boxers, pressing against the swell of her ass through her thin shorts. A fresh wave of heat pooled low in her belly, immediate and dismissive of all doubt.
He turned her face toward his and captured her mouth in a deep, consuming kiss. She melted into him, her thoughts dissolving into pure sensation. She could definitely get used to this—the simplicity of want, the absence of pretense. Her eyes fluttered shut as she moaned into his mouth, her hands coming up to tangle in his hair.
The coffee machine gurgled its final protest, forgotten.
Things were getting hotter, heavier. His hands were under her tank top again, skimming her ribs, when the sharp, electronic blare of her work phone shattered the room’s haze. It vibrated against the nightstand like an angry insect.
Jennifer stiffened. “Ignore it,” David murmured against her lips, his hands continuing their exploration.
“I can’t.” She pulled her mouth away with a gasp. The phone kept ringing. It was the specific, shrill tone she’d assigned to the precinct. Duty, a cold anchor, dragged her back to the surface. She disentangled herself, a sudden chill replacing the warmth of his body. He lets out a frustrated groan but released her.
She snatched the phone. The screen glared: CAPTAIN RUIZ.
David, undeterred, moved behind her again as she swiped to answer. He wrapped his arms around her waist, his lips finding her neck once more, nuzzling and kissing the skin below her ear as she held the phone to the other.
The sensation of his mouth on her skin was a distracting current under the harsh tone of her Captain’s voice. “Wu,” she answered, her voice tighter than she intended.
“Update. Now.” Ruiz’s voice was all gravel and compressed frustration. It was the voice he used when paperwork had piled up and city hall was breathing down his neck.
David’s tongue traced the shell of her ear. She swallowed, focusing on the water stain on the ceiling shaped like a crumpled map. “We’re in Agua Dulce. The shell company’s warehouse is active. Night shipments, unmarked trucks. We have a local witness, an old caretaker next door, who corroborates the pattern. It’s textbook ghost logistics.”
“Good. I want you both back here. Today.” A pause filled with the faint sound of his desk chair creaking. “I need a face-to-face. The DA is antsy after the Acama Street clusterfuck. We need to present what we have, see if it’s enough for a warrant on the Reno P.O. box.”
His lips moved to the junction of her neck and shoulder, a slow, deliberate kiss that made her breath hitch. She clenched her free hand against the counter’s edge. “Copy that. We’re three hours out. We’ll head in now.”
“You sound out of breath. Everything okay?”
“Fine. Just… packing up.” David’s hands slid lower, his fingers splaying possessively over her hips. She closed her eyes, a wave of conflicting heat washing through her—panic and a thrilling, shameless arousal. “We’ll be there by noon.”
“Don’t be late.” The line went dead.
She stood frozen for a second, the dial tone buzzing in her ear, his mouth still working on her neck. The professional world had just collided head-on with this secret, sweaty reality. She slowly lowered the phone.
“Round three,” David murmured, his voice thick against her skin, his hands already moving.
She twisted in his grasp, a laugh bursting out of her—half-disbelief, half-surrender. She playfully swatted his shoulder. “You’re being ridiculous. He wants us now. We have to drive.”
He just chuckled, a low, confident sound, and in one smooth motion, he bent and scooped her up. Her surprised yelp was cut off as he carried her the few steps back to the bed, dropping her onto the messy sheets. He loomed over her, his dark eyes gleaming. “It’s a three-hour drive. We have time.”
“For a quick shower, maybe,” she said, but she was already smiling up at him, the urgency from Ruiz already fading under a more immediate, physical demand.
He leaned down, silencing her with a kiss that was all confident possession. It was deep and thorough, erasing the last traces of the phone call, of Agua Dulce, of everything that wasn't this room. She raised an amused eyebrow against his mouth, feeling the sheer, stubborn determination in the way he held her. Hell, why not. The case would wait. Ruiz could stew. She kissed him back, her hands finding his hair, pulling him closer.
What followed was a slow, thorough exploration that felt like a reclaiming. There was no frantic rush now. It was hot, and raunchy in its unselfconsciousness, a mutual agreement in every gasp and shift of skin on slick skin. It was mind-blowing in its focused intensity, a deep, resonating physical conversation that left them both breathless and spent, tangled in the damp sheets. The neon was off, but the room seemed to hum.
Later, as she stood under the motel shower’s weak spray, he joined her. The water was barely warm. He took the soap from her hands and washed her back with a surprising, gentle thoroughness. Then he turned her, his hands sliding over her slick hips, and pinned her against the cold tiles. His mouth found hers again under the stream. It was unexpected, this fourth round, more insistent than before, as if the impending return to Los Angeles was a deadline they were both racing against.
They dressed in silence, assembling their professional selves like armor. The shared glances in the mirror were charged, a secret thread pulled taut between them. They left the Siesta Motel behind, the room holding their secret in its stained carpets and faded walls.
The drive back was a study in contrast. The sun was high, bleaching the brown landscape. They discussed the case with clinical detachment, planning their presentation to Ruiz, refining their statements about Garza the caretaker and the unmarked trucks. It was easy, productive. The silence that fell between topics was no longer brittle; it was comfortable, laden with a new, profound understanding.
Ruiz’s office felt like a decompression chamber. The cool, dry air, the neat stacks of files, the Captain’s unwavering gaze—it all worked to squeeze the motel heat out of them. They stood before his desk like proper detectives.
“Show me,” Ruiz said, steepling his fingers.
Jennifer laid it out. David filled in the gaps. The tax records from the clerk. The trucking licenses. The detailed, observant testimony of Ernesto Garza. The pattern of nocturnal, discreet activity at a warehouse supposedly processing “agricultural commodities.” It was circumstantial, but it was a pattern, and it led straight back to the Accountant’s web.
Ruiz listened, his expression unchanging. When they finished, he gave a single, slow nod. “It’s a thread. A good one. The DA might bite on this for a warrant on the financials. It’s something.” He looked at Jennifer, then David. “Good work. Don’t fuck up the next step. Draft the warrant request before end of day.”
They were dismissed.
The precinct hallway was a buzz of fluorescent lights and echoing voices. The transition was jarring. One minute they were in the Captain’s sanctum, the next they were back in the impersonal stream of bureaucracy.
“So we’re close,” David said, falling into step beside her. His shoulder brushed hers. “A few more steps. We tie the Reno box to the Accountant, we get a peek at the money flow. We can finally close this out.”
“If the warrant clears,” Jennifer said, her mind already clicking forward to the paperwork, the probable cause affidavit. “And if the money trail doesn’t just vanish into another—”
He stopped walking. She turned, an inquiry on her face.
He didn’t say a word. He just stepped in, his hand coming up to cradle her jaw, and kissed her. Right there in the middle of the hallway, outside the burglary division. It was firm, deliberate, over almost as soon as it began.
She pulled back, raising an amused eyebrow, a flush creeping up her neck. “What was that for?”
He gave her a slow, sideways smile, the same one from the motel room. “Couldn’t resist,” he said, his voice low. He winked, then turned and walked down the hall toward the elevators, leaving her standing alone.
She watched him go, the ghost of his lips still tingling on hers. A smile played on her own mouth. It was reckless, stupid. It was also a jolt of pure, undiluted energy.
Then, like a safe door swinging shut, it hit her.
The smile died. The tingling on her lips turned cold. She stood frozen in the institutional glow, the sounds of the precinct dialing up to a roar in her ears.
Julian.
She had just let another man kiss her in her workplace, and her first reaction had been amusement. She had spent the morning in a motel bed with him, not once, but multiple times, and had compartmentalized it so completely that she’d just delivered a flawless briefing to her Captain.
She had casually, effortlessly, cheated. Not in a moment of passionate, confused weakness like at the warehouse, but with a sustained, deliberate choice. She had enjoyed it. She had chosen it, again and again.
The guilt didn’t arrive as a wave. It was a sudden, silent vacuum, hollowing her out from the inside. The hallway felt impossibly long and bright, exposing her. She was shocked at herself. Not for the transgression, but for the terrifying ease of it.
She had never thought of herself as a person who cheated. Not like this. Not with so little regret, so much desire. The realization was a punch to the gut.
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for the physical reaction to subside. Her skin prickled under her clothes. The fluorescent lights gave everything a clinical sheen that didn’t suit the turmoil inside her chest. She needed air. She needed to move.
Julian wasn’t even in the same state, yet his absence, his *goodness*, pressed in on her from all sides. She swallowed hard. She had to focus. The case needed her.
She turned the corner toward the precinct’s back exit, away from the noise and the fluorescent glare. The cool, dry air of the stairwell hit her face like a slap. She took a deep breath, then another. The guilt wasn’t gone, but it was manageable now—a dull ache rather than a gaping wound.
The stairwell door swung open behind her. She didn’t turn. She knew who it was.
Standing here in the stairwell, she immediately recognized the presence of a man who moved with purpose and quiet authority. From where she stood she couldn’t see his face, but she recognized the rhythm of his shoes on the concrete stairs - that self-assured, slightly uneven stride that he always had when he was done with something big or right before he began something even bigger.
She turned slowly. Julian stood there in his faded blue work shirt and cargo pants, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the front of the shirt looking slightly rumpled as though he had been working hard somewhere. His dark eyes were warm and steady on hers, holding none of the questioning intensity that she had seen in Ruiz's stare moments ago.
He looked tired in a way that spoke of a hard day's work, not a hard day's decisions. In his hand, he held a single white paper bag, the grease stain already seeping through the bottom.
"Jennifer," he said, his voice low and rough from the dry heat of whatever shelter kitchen he'd been working in all day. "Figured you could use something edible."
She stared at him, at the bag, at the way his sleeves were rolled up past the faint scars on his forearms - the ones she knew he got from lifting trays of hot food in tight spaces.
The ones that made her stomach clench with guilt. He held it out, and she took it automatically, the paper rough against her fingertips.
"You look like hell," he said.
She blinked. The words were so far from what anyone had said to her in the last twenty-four hours that they might as well have been in another language.
"I mean," he clarified, stepping closer, "the kind of hell that comes before something really good happens."
She exhaled through her nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. "You're not wrong," she admitted quietly.