She felt Bobby was behaving a little strangely when he opened the door, but she told herself maybe he was nervous and that was a good thing, because it meant he cared. So when he gave her a quick peck on the cheek instead of a real kiss, she ignored it. She tried not to notice that he was staring at her as if he'd never met her before. And she tried not to notice how silent he was.

Fortunately, there was a topic for conversation.

“Your apartment is… very different from what I expected,” she said as she toured his one room. Actually, she didn't know what she had expected—something shabby but charming, perhaps. Bobby's studio just looked … poor. It was smaller than her bedroom at home, and the only window overlooked the concrete wall of the building next door. The ceiling paint was peeling, the carpet was old and stained, and the lamps didn't give off nearly enough light. A daybed was crammed against one wall—there were pillows scattered over it to make it look like a sofa—and on the opposite wall was a small galley kitchen with ancient appliances. The bathtub was, as Bobby had told her, in front of the kitchen sink. A board had been placed over it—she remembered that he'd also said the tub doubled as his kitchen table—and a tablecloth, some silverware, plates, and two candles were piled on top. Bobby had been setting the table for their romantic dinner, but then for some reason he'd stopped. Had someone interrupted him? Who? And why was he staring at her with that strange look on his face? Warning bells started going off in her brain. She pushed them aside and made a show of sniffing the air.

“Do I smell dinner?” Rose asked brightly. Why the hell wasn't he at least trying to make this easier for her? He was the one with experience, for God's sake! “Would you like me to help? I can—”

“Rose, come sit down,” he said, and he indicated the daybed. Without waiting for her to obey, he pulled out a wooden chair with several missing slats in the back, faced it toward the daybed, and sat in it himself. Rose might have been inexperienced, but even she knew sex wasn't on his mind.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“Please sit.”

“No.” She was frightened now, and she needed to be able to move around. He stood up and came to her.

“My neighbor Mrs. Forentino came home last night,” he said. His tone sounded accusatory. “She'd been in North Carolina visiting her daughter, and I hadn't seen her since I got back myself.” He paused and Rose tried frantically to remember where she'd heard that name before and how it related to her—since it was obvious that it did.