Chapter 34 Comfort Food
Violet
The Thai place is exactly how I remember it.
Too small. Too warm. Sticky menus. A bell over the door that jingles every time someone comes in or out.
It’s a block from my old apartment.
I was supposed to stop by there first—grab clothes, give notice to the manager, say goodbye to a place that never really felt like home anyway—but the smell hits me the second we step inside and my stomach growls loud enough that Camille laughs.
“You’re not allowed to make big life decisions on an empty stomach,” she says, already sliding into a booth. “Sit.”
I do.
The vinyl seat squeaks under me, grounding in a way the office never is.
A server comes over with water and menus, and before Camille can even open hers, I say, “I need a drink.”
Camille doesn’t judge. She just nods. “Same.”
When the server asks, I order without thinking.
“Thai iced tea with coconut rum,” I say.
Camille raises a brow. “That’s specific.”
“It tastes like sugar and denial,” I reply. “And it’s my favorite.”
She grins softly. “Perfect.”
The moment the server walks away, the weight hits me.
Hard.
I stare at the table, tracing a chip in the wood with my finger. My hands start shaking, subtle at first, then worse. Camille notices immediately. She doesn’t interrupt. She just waits.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper.
Camille leans back, arms crossed loosely. “Okay. Start there.”
My throat tightens. “Everything feels wrong. All of it. Rowan. The promotion. The money. My mom. Evan.” My voice cracks at his name. “The police. Calder. That man from the docks. I can’t—there’s too much. I don’t know which part I’m supposed to focus on.”
Camille reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “You don’t have to fix everything at once.”
“But that’s what I do,” I snap, then immediately soften. “That’s all I know how to do.”
She nods. “I know.”
Tears spill over, finally. Ugly ones. Hot and fast.
“I feel like if I stop,” I say, wiping at my face angrily, “everything will collapse. My mom won’t get care. I’ll lose my job. Evan’s death will get buried under paperwork and incompetence and some asshole detective with a god complex.”
Camille exhales sharply. “Calder’s a problem.”
“I don’t trust him,” I say. “I don’t even know why, I just—something’s off. And now this guy at the docks? Why would Evan keep paying for Mom after he disappeared? Why would someone come looking for him at the rehab center?”
Camille’s eyes narrow. “Someone didn’t want him found.”
The words hit like a slap.
I swallow. “And Rowan—” I stop, shaking my head. “I don’t even know where to put him.”
“Okay,” Camille says carefully. “Let’s talk about Rowan.”
I laugh weakly. “Of course we are.”
“He didn’t have to do any of this,” she continues. “The raise. The card. The lawyer. He didn't have to do any of this."
“I know,” I whisper. “That’s what scares me.”
“Why?”
“Because men like him don’t do things without a reason,” I say. “And I don’t know what his is.”
“That doesn’t automatically make it bad,” Camille counters gently.
“I don’t have time to figure that out,” I say. “I barely have time to breathe.”
The drinks arrive. I wrap my hands around the cold glass like it’s an anchor.
Camille takes a sip of hers. “You don’t need to solve Evan’s death tonight.”
“It feels like I do.”
Camille watches me for a second longer than usual, chewing on the edge of her straw. The ice in her glass clinks softly as she sets it down.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Then let’s talk about Rowan.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “I thought we already did.”
“No,” she says. “Really talk about him. Because you’re spiraling around everything else, but every time you say his name, your shoulders lock.”
I glance down at my drink. Swirl the straw. “He’s not… part of the problem. But he’s not not part of it either.”
Camille nods. Silent again.
Too silent.
I narrow my eyes at her. “What?”
She exhales through her nose. “Don’t be mad.”
I close my eyes. “Camille.”
“He asked me,” she blurts.
I freeze. Completely still.
“Asked you what?” I say carefully.
“About the rehab center,” she admits. “The other day. After everything blew up. He wanted to know why they kept calling, what was going on with your mom.”
My stomach drops.
I lift my head slowly. “And?”
Camille winces. “And I told him.”
There it is.
The tight, cold feeling in my chest blooms—but it doesn’t explode like I expect it to. It just… sits there.
I stare at the condensation running down my glass. Then I sigh.
“I don’t care,” I say finally.
Camille blinks. “You—what?”
“Not right now,” I clarify. “I don’t have the energy to be mad. I just need to understand what the hell is happening.”
She relaxes a fraction. “Okay.”
I take a long drink. The coconut rum hits my tongue, sweet and sharp. “I need to know how to handle him. What he wants. Why he’s suddenly… doing things.”
Camille tilts her head. “You mean being decent?”
“I mean being interested,” I snap, then sigh again. “There are a million people who could do my job. Smarter people. More experienced people. People who don’t come with a missing brother and a sick mother and a detective breathing down their neck.”
“So why you?” Camille asks gently.
I laugh, short and bitter. “That’s what I want to know.”
She studies me. Really studies me.
“Maybe,” she says slowly, “it’s because it’s you.”
I scoff. “That’s not an answer.”
“It kind of is.”
I shake my head. “No. Men like Rowan don’t operate on vibes. He operates on leverage. Value. Control.”
“And you have all three,” she says immediately.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You’re competent,” Camille says, counting on her fingers. “You’re loyal. You don’t gossip. You don’t screw up. You don’t flinch under pressure. And you don’t want anything from him.”
I snort. “Except my paycheck.”
“Exactly,” she says. “You want stability. Not him.”
That lands harder than I expect.
The food arrives then—steaming plates of pad thai, curry so fragrant my stomach growls embarrassingly loud.
Camille grins. “See? You’re alive.”
I laugh despite myself. “Barely.”
We dig in. I take a bite and almost moan. “God. I missed this place.”
Camille raises her glass. “To comfort carbs and emotional support alcohol.”
I clink mine against hers. “Amen.”
I chew, then say quietly, “I told him I’m not Avery.”
Camille pauses mid-bite.
“I told him I will never do what she did,” I continue. “I don’t care how much he pays me. I will lose my job before I cross that line.”
Camille’s mouth curves into a proud smile. “And?”
“And he didn’t argue,” I admit. “He didn’t push. He just… accepted it.” I glare at my noodles. “I don’t want to be special.”
“Too late.”
I look up. “Don’t.”
“But,” she adds lightly, “if he screws you over, I’ll help you burn the place down.”
I smile. “Deal.”