[ He takes the measure of that answer. Weighing the certainty in her voice; whether it tugs at the rest of her. Her face, her posture. ] “They” is how many? [ He must be satisfied because his gaze lets up, straying from her to the pink-tiled bathroom. From where he's standing he can see the flowers embroidered on the fucking hand towels.

He waits for her response, then continues: ] Rings match. Diamond's the real deal. Whoever did this'll be wanting them back. [ And watching, Rust doesn't say: why dress them up if not to be seen? ] I'm gonna lock the door, alright? You check that window—we gotta know every way in or out.