The scary part is I think he’s telling the truth. He knows I won’t kill him. But I think he likes to toy with me in that way. He’s never harmed me other than with his lies and his total ignorance of personal space.

It’s hard to call him possessive. I think “fixated” is the better word.

I’ve been in criminal justice long enough to know a harmless fixation can change into something deadly. That’s why I’m holding my gun.

He might die for me, but I also strongly suspect he may have killed for me. He’s never admitted it, but he’s hinted at it before.

Before I joined the FBI I spent two years as a street cop in south Florida after graduating college. Eleven months into the job, I answered a domestic disturbance call about a man beating his girlfriend. He was a known drug dealer and a pimp. As soon as he saw a lady cop at the door, he kicked me down a flight of stairs and broke my nose. It happened so fast I didn’t have a chance to react.

His girlfriend later testified that I’d entered the premises without knocking and threatened to kill him, so he was acting in self-defense. It’s hard for me to hate her, knowing what her life was like. He had two other witnesses, who probably worked for him. The judge dropped the assault case and the asshole walked.

It was a raw deal. Two days later his attorney filed a lawsuit against me to sue for damages.

It’s stuff like that people forget cops have to deal with. I’m not even a cop for a year and I get a broken nose and sued by a drug dealer who drives a car more expensive than the house I was renting. It’s why our suicide rate is so high.

I was at rock bottom after that happened. I don’t complain about being a woman in a man’s field, but I felt like everyone around me was just waiting for me to snap. They have no idea how close I came.

Three days after the process server presented me with the lawsuit, the drug dealer was found facedown in a Dumpster with a piece of wire wrapped around his neck. He’d been strangled to death. There weren’t any leads or an overwhelming desire to put too much effort into solving the case. It was written off as a robbery.

The jack of spades they found in his pocket didn’t seem important to anyone other than me.

The jack of spades was the first card I picked when I met Damian at the magic conference and he showed me a trick. It’s his favorite card.

I think about the murder every time I see him. I can never let myself forget what he’s capable of doing. No matter how charming. No matter the smile. I’m pretty sure he has the capacity to be a cold-blooded killer.

“I’ve got three minutes, Jessica,” he says.