Once the metal of the door is closed tight, Torrie pulls her own firearm from her waistband and sets it on the shelf where it’s usually kept when it’s not on her. She knows the car itself isn’t much to look at; only a step above the office Theo insists on sleeping in, maybe less given that his space is a real room and not modified public transit. But she’s bothered to make it seem like a decent enough place to live, with an actual bed, a table and chairs, and other odds and ends furniture. It’s a far cry from some of the nests the junkies live in. The only thing she’s really missing is the record player from her old rooms at the UMCB. The one she’s never bothered to ask about because she doesn’t want to know whether or not it was scavenged away.
“How have I been doing?” She repeats back at him as she settles in one of the chairs, her legs draw up so she could rest her chin on her knees if she felt inclined. “Well, I got stuck in that lockdown, then found a stray on my way back down here,” she offers. She hasn’t used since she started getting clean again, but she doesn’t offer that up because that wasn’t the question. “My days are a hell of a lot less filled than yours, Detective.” Theo and work might as well be synonymous.
Her focus doesn’t leave him while she answers, and her eyebrows rise up towards her hairline when she throws the same question back at him. “How have you been doing recently?” Even if she wants to ask him about the new dealers, the cats that she’s steering clear of because they’re nothing but bad news for a person like her. She’s too close to the edge still not to take a deal if she’s feeling curious enough, even if girls have gone missing. Addiction never makes her do smart things.