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“No, McConnell. You said she thinks you’re a hitman.”

“She also thinks I’m an actor.”

“That’s not making this any goddamn better.”

I lean against the kitchen counter, wishing I still fucking smoked. I kicked the habit five years ago, but right now, I’d kill for a cigarette.

“Where is she now?”

“Home.”

“You know where she lives?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know that?”

Fuck. I really don’t wanna tell him.

“She took me there.”

He’s silent. Again.

“Why the fuck did this woman take you home?”

“I passed out.”

Bishop flicks his lighter. The sound makes me want a cigarette even worse.

“McConnell.”

“Blood loss.”

“How’d she get you to her house then?”

Here we go.

“I was in her vehicle.”

“You passed out in her vehicle?”

“Technically.”

“What the hell does technically mean?”

“It means yes.”

He mutters a string of curses, then asks his next question. “How’d you treat the wound?”

“She stitched it.”

“She’s a doctor?”

“No.”

“Medical professional?”

“No.”