“Well, no, not right now. But I’m sure they could offer me a payment plan.”

St. Clare stares at me for a long time. “Who do you think we’re dealing with here? Dr. Evil?”

“Who?”

He ignores the question. “My point is that if these people are willing to kill you over money and me over a nightclub, you really think they’re going to forgive your lie and put you on a payment plan?”

“Worth a shot.”

“Sure. You let me know how that works out for you.”

“I do see an issue with that plan though.”

“Only one?”

“If I admit to not killing you, they’ll have it confirmed that someone else needs to kill you. So then we’re back to square one of you being hunted, and I’m starting to think I like you better alive than dead.”

“Oh yeah? Why?”

Why? That’s a fair question, so it probably shouldn’t be this much of an issue to answer it. I think back on the little happy bubbles I’d get whenever he walked into the cafe and we started our back-and-forth. He’s a fun guy. Friendly. Very chatty. And let’s face it, lips that rare really shouldn’t be wasted and left to rot. “Well, you’re funny,” I tell him.

“You like me better alive because I’m funny?”

“It’s a good quality to have.”

St. Clare turns his back on the large window in front of us and tucks his hands into his pockets. “What else?”

“What are other good qualities?”

“That I have, yes.”

I swallow, worried I’m going to say the wrong thing because everything sounds like the wrong thing. “You have a brother.”

“Not a quality. Try again.”

“Ah … and a Lars.”

His lips twitch and he shakes his head. “Qualities are like … the way you seem too big for a room. Your enthusiasm and broad shoulders and easy smile.”

The smile comes alive before I can stop it. “Your confidence,” I find myself saying.

“Confidence?” St. Clare sounds surprised. “My brother has always been the confident one. Nothing gets to him.”

“Shit. If that’s the case, I’m scared to meet him.”

Some of the light leaves his face. “If you meet him.”

“Are you embarrassed by me?”

“No. I’m beginning to think he’s dead.”

My heart hurts at that. If there’s one way to kill a conversation—pun intended—that’s it. I have no idea how I’m supposed to reply to that, except it feels like he needs some comfort and hope, and those are two things I’m pretty fucking good at.