Imani couldn’t be sure that MickyKline_Drinks wasn’t one, or both, of the two. Still, she had to meet him. He’d claimed to have information that might explain what Melissa had been thinking or doing before she’d disappeared, which he clearly wasn’t willing to share with the cops nor likely with a large husband looming in the background. As a therapist, she was used to getting people talking. He’d be more open with her alone.

Or he’d try to grab her too.

Imani stroked the handle of the blade in her coat pocket. She’d absconded with one of Philip’s eight-inch knives. The Shun blade had been her husband’s favorite until he’d switched it out for a forged German brand that he’d believed slightly more durable, albeit less attractive. The knife she’d taken was long and pointed like a shark’s tooth, and probably sharper. It was constructed of Damascus steel, Philip had once explained, which meant that it had been crafted from layer upon layer of metal, much in the same way samurai swords were fashioned. The result was a lightweight blade around a solid core, ready to stab and slice and carve without breaking. It was only the leather sheath encasing it that prevented the point from making her bleed.

The knife would only be useful to her if she got in trouble while in close contact and managed to pull it out in time. However, she didn’t intend for her conversation with Micky to bring her nearer than six feet. She’d promised herself that she’d take off running the second she got a bad vibe.

Imani reached one of the candy-cane streetlights beside the railing separating the promenade from the train tracks below and the highway beyond. She stood in its glow, hoping that someone might notice her in one of the buildings above and pay attention to any screaming. Even if people heard, though, there were no guarantees that folks would care. New Yorkers were adept at ignoring “street noise.”

Her breath steamed in front of her face. She’d removed her mask in hopes of creating trust and, more importantly, preserving distance. If Micky wasn’t a killer, then he wouldn’t want to get within a sneeze-length either.

Imani looked through the cloud of her condensed breath to see a man entering the park. Like her, his face was also uncovered. Again, she sensed that she’d seen him before—not only from his Instagram photos but also in person.

As he drew closer, the fog in front of her face bloomed. Micky didn’t appear that big. Several inches smaller than Philip, if she hazarded a guess. Of course, Imani reminded herself, his relatively small stature compared to her husband didn’t matter since he was considerably taller than her, and Philip wouldn’t be able to get to the park in time if things got physical.