Martin raised his bourbon in a toast. The cop grinned. He returned the toast before taking a swig.

The first sip of bourbon took the edge off the residual hangover. The second got him lightly buzzed.

He hated interviews. They always asked questions about a childhood he couldn't remember, and he'd have to recall the lies he'd made up during previous interviews, hoping to H-E-double-hockey-sticks Aunt Norma wasn't reading this stuff.

He always felt one lie away from some eager beaver discovering the truth about Martin "Killer" Savage, the shy boy who grew up without a father, without a mother after the age of five, once they'd locked her away in an institution.

A boy raised by an older woman who wasn't even a blood relative, just a friend of his mother's.

A boy with very few memories of his past, like a child who'd suffered traumas so profound he'd had to bury them so deep in his subconscious no one could ever possibly dig them up.

"Martin?"

He'd zoned out, staring at a young mother at the far end of the patio. She'd been texting for the past two minutes, earbuds in, not looking up once to check on the baby in the stroller beside her. The little boy had dropped his plush dinosaur toy on the concrete to get her attention.

The interviewer looked just like her headshot, minus the white background: black leather jacket with a white, wide-collared blouse beneath, long dark hair, olive complexion, slender neck, soft brown eyes and sharp eyebrows, thick-rimmed black glasses. Too young to date—he had a self-imposed cut-off at thirty—but not too young to turn his crank.

"Izzie Medina." She held out a hand with rings on several fingers. He stood partway to shake it. "Pleasure to finally meet you."

He agreed it was. She had a slight accent he hadn't noticed over the phone.

"I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"Just a few minutes," he said, smiling.

She returned the smile. Across the patio the young mother looked up from her phone and finally noticed the baby had dropped his toy. She bent to scoop it up, wiped it off, scowling slightly at the child, and tucked the toy into the stroller. Then she went back to texting.

"Don't you just love kids?" Izzie Medina said.

"Not particularly."

She narrowed her eyes. "Not a paternal type?"

"Bad genes."

"Huh. Well, I guess that's a valid reason. Me, personally—"

The server approached their table. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"What are you drinking?" Izzie asked Martin.

"Bourbon."

"Drink of champions. I'll have the same. Thank you."

The server went back inside. Martin sipped his drink, watching the reporter root through her purse until her ringless left hand emerged with a slim silver voice recorder. She set it down on the wrought-iron table.

"So," she said, scooching her chair closer. "I should ask, do you mind if I record this?"

"That's what I'm here for."

"Great." She thumbed the Record button.