When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(6)

I don’t spend money on clothes, not party dresses or even new hoodies. I did recently invest in a new butterfly blade. The steel handles, when folded together like a closed fan—or wings of a butterfly—are etched with the most amazing dragon design. Flick of a wrist, the handles flip open and back, the blade appears, murder and mayhem ensue. I love my new blade, spend hours at night, flicking, unflicking, tracing the amazing craftsmanship, then flicking, unflicking, all over again. Tonight, the butterfly knife is wedged in the top of my boot. It’s one of the main reasons I came out. I wanted to see how walking around with the concealed weapon would feel.

Because dating . . . A girl like me, with a guy like him . . .

Keith Edgar is a self-employed computer analyst. He’s also a true-crime enthusiast who considers himself to be one of the foremost experts on Jacob Ness. I met him in December, only because I needed some information on the life Jacob led before he found me.

At the time, I’d assumed Keith would be some basement-dwelling dweeb who drooled over crime scene photos the way others drool over porn. He’d be bat-blind, moonfaced, and with a fetish for Doritos and energy drinks.

Instead . . .

He’s tall, with a lean athletic build, thick dark hair, and impossibly blue eyes. He favors Tom Ford suits and—in the middle of the night, when I’m thinking about things I don’t want to think about—I’m guessing Calvin Klein briefs. He’s incredibly smart and can analyze a police report or a predator profile almost as quickly as I can.

My current theory is that he’s either the first good thing to happen in my life in a very long time. Or he’s a serial killer.

Which is one of the many problems with nights like tonight. I honestly can’t decide. And I don’t know if that already tells me something about him, or yet more things I don’t want to know about me.

Now, sitting at the table at the edge of the crowded rib joint, I count the exits. Front, back, kitchen door, which probably also has a rear egress. Three. I would prefer five.

Across from me, Keith watches me tap my fingers against the sticky wood tabletop and shakes his head. “Four,” he corrects, having already deduced my line of thinking. “The men’s room, at least, has a window large enough for escape. You’ll have to check out the ladies’ room on your own.”

He nods in the direction of the restrooms. They are located on the opposite side of the bar, which is positioned like a circular bull’s-eye in the middle of the floor. Annoying layout if you ask me. Six steps to dart left, half a dozen to escape right, given the obstacle smack-dab in the middle. Still, more exits are more exits.

“I’m thinking of the short ribs in the chipotle maple glaze,” Keith says brightly, picking up the menu.

“You’re a brave man to wear cashmere to a rib joint.”

I earn a brilliant white smile. Serial killer, I think again.

“Flora, most would consider me a brave man just for sharing a table with you.”

Endearing, too. Dammit.

“I bought a new knife,” I say.

“For my side dish, I’ve picked sweet potato fries. And you?”

I scowl at him. “Cole slaw.”

“Seriously? No one chooses slaw over fries. Now you’re being contrarian.”

I scowl harder.

He waggles his smartphone. “I can bring up studies if you’d like: Slaw versus fries and those who lie about their innermost desires. Don’t make me go all nerd on you. You know I’ll do it.”

He would, too. Charming, endearing, and smart. Bastard.

I return to studying the menu. I’m anxious and uncomfortable. My hands, holding the menu, appear foreign to me. My nails clipped short, no buff or polish. My palms ridged in calluses. I have practical hands, I tell myself. Capable hands. But practical and capable for what?

I still don’t know what to do with a man like Keith. Who’s obviously interested in me, but also patient and understanding. Sometimes, he even says exactly the right thing, except instead of making me feel better, it makes me suspicious. He’s too knowledgeable, too understanding.

They say Ted Bundy was very persuasive, as well.

“Ribs and sweet potato fries,” Keith says.

“Chicken and slaw,” I counter.

“Anything to drink?”

I shake my head, point to my water. I rarely drink. He’ll order a beer, but generally only one. A consideration for my abstinence or because he’s just as big of a control freak as me? This is what dating is supposed to be all about. Getting to know each other. Determining the answers to these questions. Who is he really? Who am I really? And even more intriguing, who might we become together?

I swear to God I’m sweating through my T-shirt and I’ve already lost my appetite. Serial predators I can handle. This evening, on the other hand, might be the death of me.

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl named Flora who laughed and flirted with all the boys. And now?

My phone vibrates. Saved by the bell. I yank it out of my pocket, desperate for the distraction. A moment later, however . . .

I glance up at Keith, frowning.

“You have to go?” he asks. He doesn’t bother to mask his disappointment.

“We both have to go.”

“Both?” He sits up straighter, clearly intrigued.

I hold out my phone to show him the text. “Sergeant D. D. Warren. She wants to meet both of us. Immediately.”