She needed no makeup and wore little. Her only jewelry was a simple string of pearls. No rings. No wristwatch.

When David gently pressed her to tell him about herself, she responded without apparent evasion. Born in Seattle. An only child of doting parents. Her father, Marcus, an executive at Microsoft. Her mother, Claire, a prosecutor in the district attorney’s office. Maddison wasn’t married. Not currently in a relationship. Lived now in Goleta. Visiting Orange County on business.

“What line of work are you in?” he asked.

Without hesitation, she said, “I’m an assassin.”

“Not of writers, I hope.”

“Not of writers,” she confirmed. “You’re safe with me.”

When she did not elucidate, he said, “So ‘assassin’ is a metaphor for what?”

“It’s not a metaphor. Just a synonym for murderer. Or more accurately, for executioner.”

The waiter stopped by to ask what they would like for dinner.

Maddison ordered a Caesar salad and sea bass, and David ordered the same salad and the rack of lamb, and she said there was no need to order a white wine for her, that she preferred a smooth dry red even with fish. He selected a bottle of Far Niente cabernet.

When the waiter departed, David said, “Your mother being a prosecutor, how does she feel about her daughter the assassin?”

“She’s cool with it. I’ve got very supportive parents.”

He regarded her with both amusement and impatience. “Okay, last night, I mistakenly thought you were playing games with me when you pretended to know me only by the photos on my books, when you denied being Emily. But now you are playing games. What’s the joke?”

“No joke. I know that assassins don’t usually go around telling people what line of work they’re in, but I very much like you and want to get off on the right foot with you, which means being totally honest.”

“You’re no assassin or murderer or executioner.”

She propped an elbow on the table and rested her chin in the cup of her hand, as she’d done the previous night, as Emily had so often done. “So . . . what would you prefer my line of work to be?”

“I don’t prefer it to be anything. I’d just like to know what it really is.”

Her eyes were as deep as pools that could drown men who had been swimming all their lives. She stared at him with analytic intensity and said, “Do you think I would kill innocent people?”

“I don’t think you’d kill anyone.”

“Because I only kill extremely wicked people, the truly power-mad bastards who care nothing for others. Or, once in a while, a misguided soul so passionate about one idea or another that he doesn’t realize how wicked it is.”

David put one hand over his heart. “I feel so much better.”

“What troubles you about it? Are you afraid that I might one day turn violent and kill you over some lovers’ quarrel?”