“To rival most,” he added. “So I refined the search to your name and the support group meetings, because that’s all I know about you. And I got nothing. Not even a hit on Facebook, and that place is stalker central. So, my official findings are that you’re either in the witness protection program or you’re a spy. In which case you will admit to neither—well, not out loud anyway—so maybe you can wink or something to let me know I’m on the right path. Or if it’s the cliché line of ‘I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you,’ well, I’d rather you didn’t tell me at all and I can just pretend this conversation never happened. I’ll admit I’d be disappointed. The seat-saving thing on the bus was kinda sweet, but I’d survive. And Merry suggested I come here with no expectations of anything more than friendship because for all we know, you’re married or a spy. Or in the witness protection program. And so much for no rambling. I promised myself there would be no senseless rambling, but clearly that’s not going so well.”

I laughed and he stopped talking. “I’m not sure what to answer first. My last name is Lang. I’m not familiar with the statistics, but no, Hennessy isn’t a common first name. I’m not in a witness protection program, and I’m not a spy, but there’s a reason you won’t find me on social media, and that’s because I’m a network computer security expert, and believe me, I know the ramifications of having personal details on the internet. And for what it’s worth, I like the rambling. I thought for a second you might not have wanted to be here, but when you do your rambling thing, I get an insight to the real you.”

“You like my incessant rambling?” he asked. “Okay, sure. Five minutes a day of it might be considered cute, but all day every day is a lot to take. Believe me. Ask Merry. She’ll tell you. And Mrs Mullhearn. She’s our supervisor at work, and she’s like two hundred years old, and I swear she turns her hearing aids off when I get there. Though she can hear me drop a motherfucker at fifty yards, or maybe she reads lips. I don’t know.” He frowned. “Wait. What the hell is a network computer security expert, and why does that explain not having a Facebook account?”

“It’s a fancy name for professional hacker. I’m paid by large corporations to legally hack into their companies and tell them where their target areas are.”

“You are not,” he said, his face incredulous. “There is no such thing and you totally just made that up.”

I snorted. “It’s true.”