“Under the right conditions, aren’t we all?”
She chewed her bottom lip, her nervous attention sweeping past the bungalow again before returning to me. “Should I be afraid of you?”
“No. But please tell me you don’t go around asking people ifthey intend to do you harm—because I have news for you: the people that intend to do you harm don’t tell you before they do it.”
When she turned her face toward the porch light, it was the first time I saw the shiner she was sporting. Dark purple bruising bloomed around her eye like a violent flower.
“Yeah, no shit,” she said quietly.
“Looks like you know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m betting whoever gave you that didn’t warn you it was coming.”
Her eyes cut to me, sharp and defensive. “Most people would pretend not to notice.”
“I’m not most people. And by the way, if you thought you heard a noise, why didn’t you call the police?”
Her lips thinned into a hard line. “I don’t trust the police.”
“But you trust a potential killer?”
“Potential. Does that mean you didn’t do it?”
“Nice change of subject,” I quipped.
“I’m skilled in the art of subject changes.”
“Noted. So, are you going to tell me what or who you’re running from?”
I recognized the signs. The way she angled herself, ready to bolt. The dark circles under her eyes that told me she hadn’t gotten decent sleep in who knows how long. There was a loneliness about her that made a sharp pang of hurt flash through my chest. I knew that bone-deep loneliness too well, and I wanted to shield her from it.
“Are you gonna tell me who you ‘allegedly’ killed?” She made air quotes with her fingers, a bitter smile playing at her lips.
“Nice use of the air quotes. And touché. Small talk it is then. Assuming you still want to come inside.”
I watched her mental calculation play out across her features as she probably made a pros and cons list: have drinks with a possible first-degree murderer, or go back to her own place and do whatever the hell she’d been doing before she knocked on my door. Alone.
After a long minute of evaluating her options, she stepped inside.
“Whatever you’re afraid of must be pretty bad,” I said, closing the door behind her. The sound of it clicking into place seemed to make her shoulders drop a fraction, like that small barrier between her and the world meant something.
“What makes you say that?”
I gestured between us as I led her toward the kitchen. “You’d rather come into the home of a woman charged with murder than face whatever you’re scared of out there.”
“Lesser of two evils,” she said softly.
I grabbed a recently opened bottle of wine, poured two glasses, and handed her one. She brought it to her lips and hesitated.
“It’s not poisoned.”
Her lips twitched. “I can’t tell when you’re being serious.”
“My delightful personality. You’ll get used to it.” I clinked my glass against hers and took a long swig. “So, you just moved here. What brought you to the neighborhood of an alleged killer?”
She went completely still, the wineglass frozen halfway to her lips.
“I came here for a new job,” she said finally.
“Yeah? What do you do?”
