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The owner called across.

“What can I get you, sir?”

The man didn’t look up.

“Coffee.”

His voice was as weathered as his body.

“Black.”

The owner nodded and retreated to the counter.

The man walked slowly over to where Chris was sitting and took the seat across from him, his gaze directed down at the table between them.

“So—” Chris began.

But the man held up a hand.

“No. You have your drink. You will have the courtesy to wait for mine.”

“Okay.”

Chris leaned back and waited, the two of them sitting in silence. He found himself staring at the rose in the man’s lapel. The red was one of the deepest colors he could remember seeing. Then the owner came across, breaking the spell. He put the man’s cup carefully down on the table. As he did so, Chris noticed his hands were trembling.

The old man picked up his coffee and sipped it. It was surely far too hot to drink right now, but if the temperature bothered the man at all, then he did not show it.

“So,” Chris said again.

“So indeed.”

The man still had not looked at him. But now he did—although he seemed to gather himself together a little before doing so. When he finally looked up, Chris could feel his gaze moving over his face, taking in every detail, as though the old man was looking for something there.

And whatever it was, he found it.

The blankness of his expression was interrupted by the briefest flash of anger.Hatredeven. And whatever the reason for it, Chris suddenly thought that he was in trouble. Faced with the coldness seated across from him, he felt like a child again. And while he had taken precautions by not bringing the book itself to the café, they no longer seemed enough. He was out of his depth here. And he was swimming with sharks.

But what choice did he have?

“You have the money?” Chris said.

“Yes.” The old man tapped the briefcase. “And you have the book?”

“No, but it’s somewhere nearby.”

“With your boyfriend?”

Chris stared at the old man for a second.

How did he know about James? But then he remembered how he had felt over the past few weeks. The sensation of being watched and followed. The half-glimpsed figure on the street outside their apartment.

There was the slightest of smiles on the old man’s face now. As though this was a game in which he was several moves ahead of Chris and knew all the ones ahead were about to play out to his benefit.

“Who are you?” Chris said.

“My name isn’t important. All that matters is that I am a man of my word.”

With his gaze not leaving Chris’s, the old man placed the briefcase on the table between them and unlocked it.