She sizes him up for a moment, heart hammering, and then:

"Fine," she mutters.

She takes it from him roughly and paces away. That's about as close to an olive branch there can be amongst criminals, and she'll take it, even if it feels like letting him off easy. She's quick to rile, but quick to pacify, too. She tucks his journal under her arm. Save the best for last, she figures, if he's going to let her see his business, too.

She flips her folder open and skims it. Tess isn't sure which is worse; that she can glance over charges of human smuggling and conspiracy to murder and feel so dispassionate, or that she feels more disgusted by the truth than the actual actions. She'd had her reasons for all of this, hadn't she? It being called what it is feels too ugly to think about.

She closes it again before she even finishes it, and then just stands there, thinking and tense, his journal tight against her side.