(Isobel's Point Of View)
Julien called three times before I answered. "We need to talk," he said. No greeting. No apology for the kiss.
"I'm busy."
"This is important. Please, Isobel. Just meet me for coffee."
Something in his tone made me pause. "What's this about?"
"Not over the phone. Meet me at the café near your apartment. One hour."
He hung up before I could refuse. I almost didn't go.
But curiosity won. Or maybe it was the way he'd sounded, almost scared.
The café smelled of burnt sugar and espresso; rain smeared the glass outside into silver streaks. I shrugged off my coat and scanned the small room—people bent over laptops, the barista hissing milk into a pitcher, the soft clink of cups against saucers. He was already there when I arrived, tucked into a corner table as if trying to disappear, a manila folder spread open in front of him. He looked like he hadn't slept—dark crescents under his eyes, a thin, nervous energy in the way he rubbed his palms together.
