At this point, we haven’t done anything more than make small talk while he gets my drink ready, but when I went in today, I got his real smile. Then he called me his favorite customer. And drew a smiley face on the lid of my cup that I glimpse every time I take a sip.

I’m starting to understand what he means about a happy charm.

Lars straightens suddenly. “Oh, hey, I got it.”

“It?”

“Surveillance from the night you were hit. I told the restaurant across the road that my boss got mugged and asked if they could send through the footage. I wasn’t sure they would.”

A chill creeps along my spine. “What are you hoping to find?”

“Don’t know. Where he came from? Some detail that might give us a starting point to finding him? All you picked up was the hoodie and skeleton mask, but what if there was something else?”

“I doubt a paid assassin would leave clues behind.”

“Yeah, but paid assassins don’t tend to patch you up and send you on your way either.”

I swallow around the lump in my throat. If he’d taken a shot and I’d gotten away and that was the extent of my interaction with him, it would be easy to let my anger and fear take over.

But the man took my fear and twisted it into confusion, and now, that night is a melted lump of indecision in my mind.

“Is there anything there?” I ask, wanting to distract him.

Lars clicks loudly again and falls silent, watching the screen. “You wanna look?”

“Not in the slightest.” All I need is to see my would-be murderer saving a granny from being hit by a car, or rescuing a kitten up a tree, or … or … whatever. He’s already trying to replace the monster image with a good-guy one, and I don’t want any part of it. Because of him, I’m missing a chunk of my fucking ear. Sure, I could have been missing a whole lot more, but I don’t think that earns him brownie points.

He wanted me dead, and if his shot had been a fraction closer to my skull, I would be.

So fuck him and his fake concern.

“Not a great angle,” Lars says, suddenly clicking again. “But this could be him.”

“Great.”

“Do you want to check?”

“Nope.”

“But—”

“Unless he’s getting out of a car with a clear license plate showing or holding a sign with his address up to the camera, I’m not sure it’s going to tell us much.”

“I’m sort of hoping that we see him meeting with the owners of Rev. That’s something we can go to the cops with.”

I don’t bother pointing out again that we won’t be going to them with anything.

Lars watches for a bit longer. “Shit. There you are.”

“Right.”