"You don't want to wait for your drink?"

"I had one before I left the apartment," she said with a slightly embarrassed grin. "I've done hundreds of these and I still get nervous, you know?"

"Even with a nobody like me."

"Aw, come on." She touched his arm lightly. "You're somebody. If you weren't, I wouldn't be here."

The server reached over Izzie's shoulder with a tall glass of bourbon, mostly consisting of ice, the paper straw and a lime wedge. Izzie thanked her, removed the straw and the lime and set them on the coaster before taking a healthy gulp. Then she let out a gasp of satisfaction. "It's hot today, isn't it? Such a great day."

A great day to die, he thought.

"It was snowing in Pennsylvania yesterday."

"Ugh. I never leave the city these days. Everything I need is right here. So... brass tacks, as my dad used to say."

"Brass tacks," Martin agreed. Aunt Norma used to say the same. "I'm an open book—Izzie, was it?" He knew damn well it was Izzie. He was just baiting the line.

"That's right. Can I call you Martin?"

"It's my name."

"Well, Martin, as I said over the phone last week, I meant for this piece to be about your transition from true crime to literary fiction. But considering what's happened, I guess I should ask you this first..." She cocked her head at an angle, the glasses shifting on the bridge of her nose. "Are you scared? I mean, I would be. I get death threats on Twitter like ten times a week, but this is different. It wasn't internet tough talk. He literally said he'd cut off your—"

Martin crunched ice between his teeth. "I remember what he said. I was there."

"And you're not worried?"

"Look, I'm not Salman Rushdie. I'm not gonna go into hiding. I'm just a writer, like you."

"Except you're not like me. I've never killed someone."

"We're not gonna talk about that, are we? I've been over it and over it—"

"I'm not interested in that. I've read your statements. I've read the police reports. That's old news." She leaned over the table, gripping its edge. "James Barclay is out, though. He's escaped. I mean, I was so nervous about being here with you I almost ghosted."

"You're not in any danger." He nodded toward the cruisier up the street. "I've got a police detail."

The journalist flashed him a dubious look before turning. "Ooh." She sat back and regarded him, sipping her drink. "That's kind of hot, actually."

"I'll get you his number."

"I meant the danger. You're a marked man."

"Marked since birth," he said.

The offhand comment struck him as oddly as it did her. But a memory surfaced of Aunt Norma shaving his head during a lice epidemic at school. She'd smoothed away cut hair from his shorn scalp and said, Hmm. It got bigger. And when he'd asked what got bigger, she'd told him about the ruddy brown birthmark on the back of his crown.