“I keep meticulous records in my calendar. I can tell you what I did on this date ten years ago. I couldn’t imagine not knowing.”

“I’ve never been good at keeping track, beyond work appointments. I had an art show on the Friday before, a wedding on Saturday night, a new-bride meeting on Tuesday—and several digital files show I’d done a good bit of editing that week. Those are my only concrete markers.”

“When was the accident?”

“The following Friday.”

“What about your phone? GPS history? Texts. Emails.”

“My phone was missing after the accident.” I stared into the creamy depths of my coffee. “My sister insists I’m making something out of nothing. But it’s important, and I can’t tell you why.”

“I saw your sister here. Brit Stockton, right?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“I know a lot of the attorneys in the city. She’s tough.”

I couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or a complaint. “After our mother died, she was the primary caregiver for my sister and me. She had to grow up fast.”

He sipped his coffee. “What caused the accident?”

“The report said I was intoxicated. But I don’t drink or use drugs.”

“You took two sips of the beer I gave you.” He did have an eye for detail.

“Big mistake,” I said. “I did it without thinking and should always be thinking.”

“Maybe on the day of the accident, you weren’t thinking, either. Maybe someone offered you something, and you took it before you realized. It just got ahead of you as you were rushing to get home.”

“It’s a good theory.”

“But . . .”

“I don’t think I screwed up.”

He frowned. “Could you have been drugged? It happens too often.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did the hospital test your blood?”

“They were too busy getting me into surgery. Later they did test, but the tests were inconclusive. But even if they found a substance, I didn’t willingly take it.”

“Who’re you trying to convince?”

“I didn’t screw up.” I wasn’t afraid of myself, but of someone else. I sipped my coffee and carefully set the mug down. “Here you’re offering me coffee, and I start spilling my guts. You have a way, Mr. Bernard.”

He studied me, clearly recognizing my deflection. “The Mr. makes me sound too old.”

I smiled. “You’re not.” Suddenly a little too aware of him, I stood. “And I’ve got a mountain of editing today, and you’ve got to get to work.”

“Are you working a wedding tonight?”

“No.”

“I never followed up on my sticky-note invitation.”

“Maybe another time.”

Unfazed, he walked me to the door. “I’m going to hold you to that. See you around.”

“Will do.” As I crossed the hallway, I felt him watching me, but when I turned back to smile or wave or something, he’d vanished into his apartment.