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The barista grinned. “Hey, bartenders and baristas, right? Scholars of the human condition.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Bianca said. “I just might take it.”

• • •

When she was little and complained about anything, especially about her father never making it home to Sicily for birthdays and holidays, Bianca’s mother would either smile or scowl, depending on her mood, and say—in Sicilian, of course—that nobody ever said life would be easy.

Dio. Mama had spoken the truth.

Life was certainly not easy tonight.

Bianca had gone through her set list of questions. At first, Noah’s responses had been clipped. He’d sounded like a spoiled child. Yes. No. I don’t remember. So she’d instituted a short break by changing the subject. She’d asked him about his job—he was an actuary—and where he’d grown up. Little by little, his attitude had thawed. By the time she took the conversation back to the survey, he wasn’t just talking, he was talking at endless length.

She imagined the little digital recorder she’d placed on the table gasping for breath.

She wished she could hurry him along. His answers struck her as mostly lies, and when he smiled, the flash of his discolored teeth was unsettling. Yellow was definitely not her favorite color, especially when it came to people’s mouths. Added to that, she was chilly. Cold, actually. She’d blotted away a lot of the water in her hair, and Chay’s jacket was warm, almost as if it still held the heat of his body, but her clothes were stuck to her, and walking through that puddle had left her feet wet.

Ten minutes into what should have been a two-minute reply to her final question, Bianca glanced at her watch.

“You’re not listening,” Noah said.

She looked up. He was smiling again, showing all those teeth.

“I am,” she said pleasantly. “You were talking about your first date. In high school. I was just going through things, making sure we’ve touched on all the topics.” She smiled, too, even though she didn’t much feel like smiling. “And we have!” She reached for the recorder and thumbed it off. “So, Noah, thank you very much for your time and—”

“I’m not finished.”

Bianca shoved back her chair and reached for her empty coffee container. “Really, I have all the data I need. I can always contact you if—“

Noah’s hand clamped down on hers.

“I said, I’m not finished.”

“Noah,” Bianca said calmly, “let go of my hand.”

“There’s lots more I want to tell you, Bianca.”

“Ms. Wilde.” This time, she didn’t give a damn if she hurt his feelings or not.

“Surely we’re on a first name basis.”

“Noah. Our interview is over. I’m leaving now. Please let go of—”

She gasped as his hand tightened painfully around hers.

“You’re right. You are leaving now. With me.”

“Noah,” she said, her tone firm, “let go of my hand.”

“Didn’t you hear me, Bianca? We’re leaving here together. I know that’s what you want to do.”

Her heartbeat skittered. The man across from her had undergone a frightening transformation. His eyes gleamed with manic determination. His breathing was rapid. The fingers that clasped hers felt like a vise. They were in a public place, which might be her salvation, but if he was undergoing a psychotic episode, anything was possible.

“Noah,” Bianca said quietly, “you need to let go of me.”

“What I need is you. Don’t you understand?” He leaned towards her. She could smell his breath, a mixture of coffee, decay and desperation. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anybody—”

“Baby?”