January 31

“You don’t trust me,” he says. Well, duh. “Or is it that you don’t believe me?”
“Would you believe both?” I say. “I mean, you just waltz into my life as if you’ve known me for years, start spouting off nonsense, and then expect me to just jump into your arms and let you… what is it you’re going to do to make all that stuff go away, anyway?”
“Like I said, just asking you a couple of questions, is all,” he says, “and getting you to make me one little bitty promise.”
Oh boy. Here it comes. I knew it was just a matter of time before he started asking me to get my clothes off. “Didn’t I tell you there were 900 numbers for–”
He laughs, now, openly and loudly. “My dear,” he says, “if I wanted you for your body, this conversation would be over. No, no, it’s not something that you do that I want. It’s something I don’t want you to do.”
“All right,” I say. “So let’s hear it. What’s your story?”
“It’s really just as I said,” he says. “I just need to ask you about Katie Sanders.”
Katie. I knew it was connected. “What about Katie?”
“Please don’t be alarmed,” he says. “I know she’s a good friend of yours.”

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