Ben set the cup and the paper sleeve on the low table near the front desk and did not sit until I nodded at the second chair.

The toast was still warm enough to smell like butter and browned bread. I tore a piece, ate it, and held the other half toward him without looking up as if we did this every afternoon. He took it. Our fingers did not linger.

"Katherine."

I knew that tone. The one that wanted the sitting room, the blood, the run, the hospital door.

Was he going to tell me? And here I was, thinking he was the victim until I saw him nearly...