“I don’t know. He’s in his forties, I guess, but I’ve never really met him.” And he liked it that way. The other tenants left him alone, and he did the same. But his answer obviously bothered Sara, given her frown, and he was acutely aware of how bad he was at polite conversation designed to get to know someone better. Straightforward business, interviewing, fact-gathering, he was perfectly capable of. This type of dynamic, this innocent idle nothing sort of chatter was a challenge. In all personal honesty, he’d never been good at it, even back in the early nineteenth century before the alcohol, the drugs, had gotten the majority of his attention. He had always been more comfortable pursuing his solitary pursuits of music, painting, writing. But he had tried then. Now he almost never even needed to expend the energy to attempt to be normal.

It was hard as hell at the moment, and he was seriously regretting his initial desire to work with Sara Michaels. It had been a definite lapse in judgment, an attempted shortcut he shouldn’t have taken.

“This is a beautiful color.” She gestured to the walls of his living room as she followed him in. Her fingers came up and brushed over the brilliance of his green paint. “It’s so alive.”

It had taken him two weeks and six shades of paint, mixing yellows and greens until he had achieved the perfect eye-popping lime he had wanted. It was ironic that she would notice, because it had been the first time in a century he had allowed himself to touch a paintbrush, to explore color combinations, to bring joy and satisfaction into his life from the act of creating. It had been a celebration of sorts, of hope, that maybe if he solved Anne’s murder, he could pay the debt he owed her soul. This color had appealed to him as loud and vibrant, allowing the light from the two large windows to bounce around all four walls, reflect off the floor and ceiling, and allow his furniture to bask in a warm glow.

“Thank you. I like it.” He did.

“Do you work here in your apartment?” She was glancing around, casual but curious.

“Yes.” The way she turned, ran her eyes over his possessions, assessing and measuring, made him uncomfortable.

No one came inside his apartment except for him. It felt invasive, disturbing. He should have offered to meet her at her hotel, or at a café. That he didn’t know how to act, what to do with his hands, how to lead and direct the conversation, angered him, and he felt the unmistakable desire for a drink. The dryness in his mouth, the tightness in his chest demanded attention, and it was like an insidious whisper in his soul, the promise that everything would be easier, smoother, with a shot of whiskey sitting in his gut.