Serrated blade, most likely.

She had expected a gunshot.

This was different.

Personal.

Someone had been close enough to smell his breath when they tried to kill him.

Bruises covered his torso.

Fresh purple mixed with fading yellow.

This had not been one bad night.

“This is going to hurt.”

“I know.”

“How?”

No answer.

Sheree cleaned the wound.

His jaw tightened.

That was all.

She pressed gauze against it.

Five minutes.

Seven.

Bleeding slowed.

She retrieved a suture kit she kept for emergencies.

Strictly speaking, she was not supposed to do this in a kitchen.

Strictly speaking, there was an unknown man bleeding beside her refrigerator at four in the morning.

The rulebook had already left the building.

She threaded the needle.

He woke fully on the third stitch.

His hand closed around her throat.

Sheree stopped.

The needle remained suspended.

His grip was controlled.

Terrifyingly controlled.

He could have crushed her airway.

He didn’t.

His thumb rested against her pulse.

Sheree stared into his eyes.

“You’re awake.”

He looked at the needle.

Then the gauze.

Then her.

“Where’s my coat?”

“Floor.”

“My phone?”

“Didn’t see one.”

His grip remained.

Sheree lifted an eyebrow.

“If you strangle me, I can’t finish.”

Nothing.

“And if I can’t finish, your insides may become your outsides.”

His thumb shifted against her neck.

“That would be inconvenient.”

A pause.

Then he released her.

Sheree sucked in air.

“Thank you.”

“Whiskey.”

“I have vodka.”

“Fine.”

She handed him the bottle from the freezer.

He drank directly from it.

Sheree winced.

“That’s twelve dollars.”

“You expect reimbursement?”

“I expect gratitude.”

He handed it back.

“Continue.”

“Please.”

His eyebrow lifted.

Sheree held the needle still.

“Say please.”

For the first time, his expression almost became human.

“Please.”

“See? Growth.”

She kept stitching.

Twenty minutes passed beneath the hiss of the radiator.

Outside, wind pushed sleet against the windows.

Inside, silk thread passed through skin.

The stranger never complained.

When she finished, Sheree taped sterile gauze over the wound.

“There.”

He pushed himself upright.

His face had regained a little color.

Not enough.

He surveyed the apartment.

Yellow kitchen cabinets.

Peeling wallpaper.

A table with one chair because the second had broken last spring.

Three unopened electricity notices.

Her nurse schedule held to the refrigerator by a magnet shaped like a peach.

His gaze stopped on the bills.

Sheree noticed.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Look at my overdue utilities like you’re about to give me financial advice.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You have financial-advice cheekbones.”

He stared at her.

Sheree stared back.

Then, unexpectedly, his mouth moved.

Almost a smile.

“Do you live alone?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You shouldn’t have brought me in.”

“You mentioned that.”

“People die every day.”

“Also true.”

“Interfering makes you visible.”

Sheree gathered the bloody gauze.

“So does being six foot three and bleeding behind a dumpster.”

His face hardened.

“You have no idea what you did tonight.”

“No. I know exactly what I did. I kept somebody alive.”

“Sometimes those are different things.”

Sheree paused.

Something about his voice made the kitchen feel smaller.

She tied the bloody waste bag.

“Couch.”

He looked toward the living room.

“You sleep there.”

“I’m leaving.”

“You can barely stand.”

“I’ve stood through worse.”

“I’m sure that line impresses women in expensive restaurants. Sit down.”

His eyes narrowed.

Sheree pointed.

“Couch.”

To her astonishment, he obeyed.

She handed him an old fleece blanket.

“If you steal my television, I’ll find you and remove those stitches with my teeth.”

He looked at the ancient television.

“That?”

“Don’t insult Maurice.”

“Your television has a name?”

“It has survived longer than most relationships.”

He gave a low laugh.

It was the first warm sound she had heard from him.

Sheree stopped.

For half a second, he looked younger.

Not harmless.

Never harmless.

But tired.

Terribly tired.

She turned away before she began wondering why.

At her bedroom door, she looked back.

“What’s your name?”

He sat beneath the blanket.

His dark eyes met hers.

“Roman.”

“Roman what?”

Silence.

“Of course.”

She entered her room.

Locked the door.

Put a wooden clothes hanger beside the bed as if that would save her from a six-foot-three psychopath.

Then she lay down fully dressed.

She expected to stay awake.

She didn’t.

Exhaustion took her instantly.

Winter sunlight woke her.

For several seconds, Sheree stared at the ceiling and wondered whether the night had been an unusually vivid stress dream.

Then she smelled iodine.

She got out of bed.

The hanger in her hand looked ridiculous.

She opened the door.

The couch was empty.

The fleece blanket had been folded into a perfect square.

The stranger’s bloody clothes were gone.

The kitchen floor had been cleaned.

Not wiped.

Cleaned.

Even the smear beside the refrigerator was gone.

Sheree stared.

“Roman?”

Silence.

Then she saw the table.

Beside her overdue electric bill sat a thick stack of hundred-dollar notes.

She froze.

Ten thousand dollars.

Maybe more.

Beneath the money was a cream-colored business card.

No name.

No company.

One telephone number embossed in black.

“Absolutely not.”

Sheree went to the window.

A black SUV idled across the street.

Tinted windows.

Engine running.

The driver’s window lowered perhaps an inch.

Cigarette smoke escaped.

Someone was watching her apartment.

Her stomach turned.

She looked down at the money.

Then the card.

Then the SUV.

And for the first time since dragging Roman inside, Sheree wondered whether saving his life had just ruined hers.

She called the number.

It rang once.

“Sheree.”

His voice.

She gripped the phone tighter.

“You left ten thousand dollars on my table.”

“Yes.”

“Come get it.”

“No.”

“Then I’m donating it.”

“Fine.”

“To an organization you hate.”

A pause.

“Do you know which organizations I hate?”

“No, but I’ll research.”

Silence.

Then Roman said, “Replace your front lock.”

“My landlord replaces locks.”

“Your landlord hasn’t replaced it in eight days.”

Sheree stopped breathing.

Slowly, she turned toward the window.

“How do you know that?”

Roman didn’t answer.

“Roman.”

“Don’t leave your apartment.”

Her anger cooled instantly.

“Why?”

“Because the vehicle across from you isn’t mine.”

Sheree’s eyes returned to the SUV.

The cigarette disappeared.

“Then whose is it?”

Roman’s voice changed.

Harder.

“Get away from the window.”

Sheree stepped back.

“Roman—”

“Now.”

She moved.

A second later, the building buzzer sounded.

Once.

Twice.

Then someone knocked downstairs.

A man shouted.

“Maintenance!”

Sheree’s heart slammed.

She walked quietly toward her kitchen.

Roman remained on the phone.

“Do not open the door.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Bedroom. Lock it.”

“What’s happening?”

“They’re looking for me.”

“And why would they look here?”

Silence.

“Roman?”

The downstairs door opened.

Footsteps entered the stairwell.

Slow.

Heavy.

Coming up.

Roman exhaled.

“Because someone saw you bring me inside.”

Sheree’s skin went cold.

The footsteps reached the second floor.

Stopped outside 2B.

Three knocks.

“Miss Carter?”

A male voice.

“Building maintenance.”

Sheree looked at her door.

The chain trembled slightly in its bracket.

The man outside tried the handle.

“Miss Carter?”

Roman spoke quietly.