Jordan did not let it go.

Three days after the first coffee, she texted a single line—Same place, twenty minutes, don’t make me come find you—and Elena went. She chose a different sweater this time, higher at the neck, thicker in the sleeves, and still felt every bruise as she walked from the car to the corner booth. The marks had deepened rather than faded. The one beneath her collarbone remained especially tender; the fabric brushed it with every step.

Jordan was already seated. Two mugs waited on the table. She pushed one toward Elena without speaking and waited until Elena had settled opposite her, hands wrapped around the warm...