I scooted away from him, fast, my hand racing to grab the necklace at my throat for strength. “Who are you?” I asked him, barely biting back, And why do you want to murder me? in time.

He stood up, dusted himself off, and then offered me a hand with a bemused look. “Uh, the guy who stopped you from becoming one with the 459 line?” he said, jerking his chin at the idling bus behind us.

The bus driver squinted at me in the headlights—I knew her, she had the word WORLD-WEARY over her head, same as always—and she recognized me as I read her word. “Blondie! You good?” she began, but I waved her back hard, struck by a certain horror: what if I got her killed?

“I’m okay, I’m okay!” I said, picking up my backpack quickly, and getting up on my own, without taking his arm.

“Are you sure?” KILLER asked, solicitously, tilting his head down.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Just because you wanted to murder me, was all! I felt like screaming.

But he wasn’t really acting like a killer now, was he?

No.

Because he was probably in that get on her good-side, pre-killer phase that lulled women into dangerous situations in Target parking lots. He needed a phone, or he’d lost his cat, or he wanted help moving furniture that could also store a body—I’d seen all the shows before.

“Okay, well,” he said, gesturing to both me and the driver-lady. “Have a nice night, I guess.”

“I will,” I said, very definitively, seeing as I was alive and going to stay that way.

“You coming?” the bus driver asked me, turning back to get into the bus. She had a schedule, I was making other people late—and she wasn’t getting any less WORLD-WEARY dealing with me.

And then KILLER-man returned, into the halo of the bus’s headlights. I tensed, waiting for some malice as he stood there, his strong profile cast half-in-light, half-in-shadow.

“Or, maybe, we could go get coffee,” he asked me.

I gawked at him. Why on earth would I want to do that with him?

I knew what he was!

“Ab-so-lutely,” I said, drawing out each syllable as I said it, entirely prepared to follow it up with a hearty NOT, but then I had a horrible thought: was he going to try to kill someone else tonight if he didn’t kill me?

At least I’d known a KILLER was chasing me…if I lost track of him, would I be condemning some other poor girl?

I tried to imagine myself reading the local headlines tomorrow without guilt and groaned.

Where’s your sense of self-preservation, Elle? I asked myself. Oh, over here, right beside the vibrant memory of every mistake I’ve ever made in my entire life that keeps me up at night.

And not for the first time, I wished I had a normal super-power like you saw in the movies. Those kind of superheroes got to take their bad guys into the cops, no questions asked. I was just stuck trying not to let my friends date weirdos…and apparently taking killers up on offers for coffee.

“Yeah?” he asked, double-checking my silence.

“Yeah,” I croaked.

He gave me an easy smile. “I’m parked over there.”

I followed him, and whipped my phone out at the speed-of-light to start texting Whitney in all caps, I didn’t care what I was interrupting between her and GYM RAT.

BAD DECISION ALERT. GOING OUT WITH A—I began, and I paused, looking him over. He was still hot, goddammit. HOT GUY. I eyed him, and kept texting. SIX TWO? THREE? DARK HAIR, DARK EYES, and HE’S DRIVING A—my fingers paused.

“This is your car?” I asked him, as he used the key to open the door of a black Buick Skylark probably older than I was.

He laughed. “Yeah. It’s one of my uncle’s. I was walking over here when you bolted.”

It was very mid-range sedan-y…and probably had a spacious trunk. I frowned at him and gave him a look. “Mind if I write down your license number and send it to a friend?” I asked, standing six steps back. Room enough to run.

“What’re you, a cop?” he asked, as his eyebrows went high, but he shrugged lightly. “Be my guest.”

I pulled out my phone and took a photo of it to shoot to Whitney, while he watched, tilting his head. “Should I, like, pose or something?” he asked, lounging against the Buick’s side. We were down the street from a streetlight, giving me a long shadow, as it illuminated his wry smile.

Easy for him to be casual, thinking he was going to murder me. “Look, I don’t know you—”

“Hello, I’m Byron, the guy who saved your life,” he said, cutting me off as he stuck out his hand.

I hugged both of mine around myself rather than shake his, feeling my phone buzz with a return text from Whitney. That made me feel slightly more empowered.

“That doesn’t mean I owe you,” I told him flatly.

He went from holding his one hand out, to raising both his hands in an innocent gesture. “Nothing but my usual fee for saving people,” he said.

“Which…is?” I asked.

“Your name.”

I inhaled deeply. I hoped whatever other girl I was saving knew I was going to the mat for her tonight. “Elle.”

“Elle,” he repeated warmly. “Nice to meet you. I know a coffee shop a few blocks away—though we could walk, if you wanted.”

There were only a few places open this late at night. “Mr. Z’s?” I guessed.

“That’s the one.”

It was in the direction of my apartment, at least. I peered into the window at his glove-box, which was (in my head) full of: chloroform, guns, knives, gun-knives, and poison.

“Yeah. Let’s walk.” I added, “If you don’t mind,” reflexively, because it was important as a woman to always remember to be polite when you were about to be murdered. Honestly, Elle.

“That’s fine.” He started down the street, and then paused, waiting for me to follow, and when I did, he started shaking his head. “You know, you about gave me a heart attack when you bolted into the street. Do you have a death wish or something?”

I gave him a tight smile. “You could say that,” I said, my voice going high.