Rose nods guiltily. “I’d read the whole Donner Party story, then there were those guys in the plane crash in the Andes and … you know. I kind of wondered what we taste like. It’s not like I wanted to eat a whole person or anything. I’m not a cannibal.”

Eddie is slowly shaking his head from side to side like an old dog who has lost his sense of smell. “Jesus effing Christ.” He fixes his eyes on the bar. “What did it taste like?”

“Finger food,” Rose says.

He looks at her, eyes narrowing.

“I have your information, your DNA, your fingerprint, and the knife. This would be strike three, Eddie. Next time you go away for life.” Rose doesn’t know if North Carolina has the three strikes rule or not, but it sounds good.

Eyes black and hard as chips of obsidian, he shoves his face close to Rose’s. “How about I just kill you the rest of the way,” he says.

“Information. My death. Safety deposit box. Do I have to spell it out?”

Eddie’s eyes go from fiery to blank. “Uh. Yeah. Spell it out.”

“I have all the evidence you kindly left at my home, along with a complete statement of what transpired. If anything happens to me, or to anybody even slightly related to me, all that evidence will be sent to the police, your parole officer, and the newspapers.”

Eddie gapes as if he can’t believe what he is hearing; then he lowers his gaze to the bar.

“Can I help you?” A bartender has glided over.

“Gimme a draft,” Eddie says.

“I’m fine.” Rose waves him away.

“You’d really do that, wouldn’t you?” Eddie asks. He looks angry and lost and miserable. “You’d wreck my life. They said you were one crazy bitch.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Eddie. Not to ruin your life. To find out who ‘they’ are. Who hired you?” The bartender is back with the draft beer. “To call on me that night?”

“How the fu—the eff—would I know?”

That he wouldn’t know hadn’t occurred to Rose. She thinks about it for a moment. “How did they contact you?”

“Email.” Eddie takes a long draft of the beer, then wipes the foam off his lip with the cocktail napkin.

“Who emailed you?”

“It’s not like that.” Eddie runs his fingers through his hair, ruining the part and leaving hair stuck up on his crown like chick’s fluff.

“What is it like?” Rose asks patiently. Eddie doesn’t seem to be stonewalling; he seems to be trying to think. Rose guesses thinking is not his long suit.

“You know, like Angie’s List, Craigslist, shit like that.”

Rose nods.