The timer ticked down. Three minutes left.
Clara's hands twisted in her lap, but she didn't move. Her eyes, glossy with restrained tears, flicked between me and the bowl of cucumber slices now soaking quietly in the liquid she had brought.
"You're really just going to sit there and wait to prove I meant to hurt her," she whispered. "Do you really think I'm that kind of person?"
I didn't answer. My gaze stayed trained on her, unreadable.
"I told you already," she continued, voice cracking, "I used it on myself. I tested it. That's why I had the gel pads too—just in case anyone felt a sting. I didn't want to risk anything."
"Then why pay someone under the table?"
Her mouth opened—then closed. That flicker of panic was back, brief and sharp, flashing in her eyes before she could bury it again under a trembling pout.
"I… I didn't want it traced back to me," she said, her voice barely audible.
"And why not?" I pressed. "If it was harmless, like you claim."
