I watched all of Byron’s muscles tense, but then he nodded, relaxing forcibly. “Okay,” he said. “If it gets you to stay.”

I took a step forward and let the door slowly close behind me.

This was by far the nicest hotel room I’d ever been in, and under other circumstances staying here would’ve been a lot of fun. It had floor to ceiling views of the downtown skyline, a massive king bed, and a quick glance to my right told me the bathroom was bigger than my whole apartment.

He reached past me to set the door’s swing lock, then he looked at me in disappointment. “But before that I was going to say I shouldn’t involve you.”

My eyes about bugged out of my head. “You just shot a guy in front of me, Byron!” I hissed at him. “I would say that’s pretty involved!”

“It wasn’t supposed to go down like that,” he said and grimaced. “But why the fuck did you get out of the car, Elle? You promised—”

“No, you don’t get to turn this on me! Why the fuck were you shooting people?” I retorted, baffled and sideswept. “Byron—I saw bad guys! I wanted to help!”

It was his turn to boggle. “You…wanted to help?” he repeated, his eyebrows high.

I folded in on myself some. “Yeah, well, in hindsight it was a bad idea, okay?”

“Sunshine,” he said, his voice low, taking a step over toward me—like he wanted to, what, kiss it all and make it better?—but then my phone rang in my skirt’s pocket. I pulled it out instantly, and saw the flash of my mom’s name.

Then Byron took it from me, hung up on her, and industriously popped the case off and pulled the battery out. “Sorry, it’s safer,” he apologized, once it was done, and my phone was dissected in pieces on the hall table.

“Sure. I feel a whole lot safer now. Thanks,” I said flatly.

He sighed heavily, taking me in, and then jerked his chin toward the couch in the main room. “Let’s sit down.”

I perched on the edge of the couch, with my skirt tucked around my knees, while Byron pushed the coffee table back to sit across from me, the briefcase beside him. “Elle,” he began, trying to reason with me. “Even I don’t know what’s in this briefcase.”

I was unsure whether that made everything that had gone down better, or worse.

“It’s not my job to know what’s inside the briefcase,” he went on.

“Then what is your job?” I asked slowly, afraid of finding out.

He slowly pushed his bangs out of his face with a hand and gave me a tense look before answering. “To do whatever it is my uncle tells me to.”

“Whatever?” I asked him, my voice small.

“What. Ever,” he repeated, with emphasis, letting me imagine all the ramifications of the words. Like murdering EXECUTIONERS.

I put my hands between my knees. “Would you have ever told me?”

“No,” he said, resoundingly. “Why would I?”

“So you…were just going to lie to me, indefinitely?”

“Not lying, Sunshine, so much as trying to keep you safe,” he said, and he swung his knee out a little to tap mine, making me glance up at him. “And also I didn’t want you looking at me the way you are right now, if I could help it.”

My lips pulled into a thin line. “Too late.”

He inhaled deeply, held it, and nodded, his KILLER bobbing with his sentiment. “Okay. I can be gone tomorrow. And, for what it’s worth, Elle—I’m sorry. This is why I usually don’t date anyone.”

“Yeah?” I said, putting my hand to my mouth to clap back a sarcastic titter. “Well, you’re not going to believe it, but this is usually why I don’t date, too.”

He gave me a strange look, but didn’t press.

The one guy—the ONE guy—I bothered to be interested in, I ignored all common sense for, and this was what happened.

I wanted to believe in good things for my friends, and for other people—and I’d wrapped a significant chunk of my self-esteem around being able to make those good things happen. A little nudge here, a “shouldn’t you ask her out?” there—I’d been other people’s fairy godmother since all my friends went through puberty.

And in exchange for all my goodwill and doing my best to facilitate other people’s happiness…this was what I got.

I hugged myself again, feeling hopelessly defeated.

“Just open up the briefcase already, Byron,” I said. “I need to know.”

He frowned, but didn’t fight me, swinging the briefcase down on its side beside him, then popping both of its clasps open easily. The thing wasn’t even locked.

I didn’t know what I was expecting inside—money? drugs? diamonds?—but what was in there didn’t make any sense to me.

Paperwork. Some patent-looking things, and maybe some financial documents? Just papers—but I was smart enough not to touch anything.

Looking up at Byron, I saw that he was just as mystified as I was. He hadn’t been lying about that, at least.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

“No.” I slumped down like I had no bones.

“Then how about I order some room service, while you take a shower?” he offered. I gave him my best you-are-not-even-within-a-thousand-feet-of-seeing-me-naked glare. “You’ve got blood in your hair,” he explained with a wince. “You shouldn’t sleep on it.”

“Ugh!” I said. I jumped up, sticking my tongue out involuntarily, and felt the urge to puke again.

I stripped off the hoodie he’d given me—and wondered if I’d ever see my own hoodie again—and went to the bathroom. I turned back, at the door. “Wait—will you still be here when I get out?”

“Do you want me to be?” he asked, twisting to face me, his eyes intent on mine as he braced for my answer. His arm was on his knee and the way that the light hit him cast him in shadow, like I’d been calling him for days.

I’d liked that, so, so much.

“Yeah,” I told him truthfully. If only I could’ve lived in a world where he wasn’t also a KILLER. “But maybe, like, way the fuck over there,” I said, pointing to the far side of the room.