After we get our food, I settle back into the booth and sip some tea. I understand the appeal, particularly for Kincaid; they lace it with so much sugar here that my body gets an instant buzz. The origami sits half-finished, creation unrealized. Time to wade in. “So. I’ve been thinking about the fortune you gave me. How you made me think you knew what it said before I even opened it. But you didn’t. You guessed. What are there, maybe three basic subjects? Love, money, fate. Right? When you asked me how I liked my fortune, you watched my reaction, then picked the one you thought would be most likely to bother me. Fate.”

He eats an egg roll, hopefully sponging some of the demon from his system. “Says a lot about a person. Those three subjects. You’re already lucky in love.” I laugh. “Don’t give a shit about money. It’s just fate that gets you. Facing the unexpected.” He studies me. “Why?”

I fold my arms on the table. “I guess because I’m scared of it. I hate the idea that we can’t control our own lives.”

“Is that what the fortune said?”

“Well, no. Not exactly.” I glance up, catch his intensity as he conducts a two-second postmortem of my expression. My mouth moves in a reluctant smile, and I shake my head. “I’m giving you everything you need to play me, aren’t I?” His smile broadens, and he sits back against the booth, caught. He seems better now, back in the moment with me. That’s when I drive in my first nail: “Do you live on Lorimer Street?”

Kincaid’s smile fades. His brows are still raised, eyes on me.

“Down at the end? The brown house?” Nothing. “Nevers. That’s your last name, right?” He doesn’t speak.

“Jesus, Kincaid. I just want to know you. Why do you make it so hard?” Shake of his head, his gaze finding the exit behind me. “You don’t go home sometimes, do you? You stay out all night.” I’ve got him, wings pinned to a board, but it doesn’t feel good, no payoff for making him feel this trapped. “I found your bed. Out in the marsh.”

He holds still, but maybe I’m picking up some skills from him, because my answers are all there, in his silent exhalation, the set of his mouth. He wants out of here, away from me, and maybe I’m ruining what we have, but I can’t stop now. “You really sleep there? God. That’s crazy.” Silence. “Your parents don’t even care? Did they kick you out?”

More silence. As good as a yes. “She doesn’t know.” Pause. “She doesn’t want to know.”