Goldy looks up and finally lets go of the comforter that's been clamped to her torso all this time. It peels away, exposing her breasts and more as she gets to her feet.

The emotion that showed on her face before has been somehow blocked or focused or beaten back. In its place is a scarily business-like demeanor: a face that is stony and dark of expression—though perversely still quite ashen in tone—and blue eyes that are as hard and cold as ice. It's a look that portends remorseless killing. A lot of it, if necessary.

"I say yes."

Beat.

"If... you're sure she wants out."