The café smelled of espresso and something sweet—maybe vanilla, maybe caramel. Dean barely noticed. His eyes were locked on her, watching as she flipped through a folder of fabric swatches like this wasn’t a goddamn murder investigation.

“Lady, we’re trying to help,” he said, his voice rough, edged with impatience.

She didn’t even glance up. Instead, she took out a lip gloss, swiped it over her mouth with practiced ease, and tucked it back into her designer bag. The click of the cap might as well have been a gunshot. Final. Dismissive.

Dean bristled. He’d dealt with demons, witches, things that didn’t even have a name, but never had he met someone so utterly uninterested in him. She didn’t fidget under his stare, didn’t ask what agency he was with, didn’t even blink when he mentioned the body count. Just sat there in her crisp white blouse, manicured nails tapping against the table, already halfway back to whatever multimillion-dollar empire she ran.

And damn it, she smelled expensive—something floral, warm, like summer nights and trouble.

“She’s hiding something,” he muttered to Sam when they stepped outside, watching her disappear into the crush of Manhattan traffic, heels clicking like a countdown.

But it wasn’t guilt. No, it was worse. She just didn’t care.

And for some reason, that pissed him off more than anything.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Yeah, well… now I kinda wanna know what she does care about.”