Mortal Danger

“What?” I managed to get the word out without stammering.

“You don’t have to do this. There are other options.”

I didn’t try to bullshit. His direct, gold-sparked gaze made me feel that would be a waste of time. Part of me thought I might have already jumped, and he was my afterlife. Or maybe I was on a ventilator after they fished me out of the river, which made this a coma dream. I’d read studies where doctors posited that people experienced incredibly vivid dreamscapes during catatonia.

“Yeah? Like what?”

I figured he’d mention therapy. Group sessions. Medication. Anything to get my butt off this bridge. Right then, only the strength of his biceps kept me from flinging myself backward. Well, that … and curiosity.

“You can let me help you.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible.” My tone sounded bleak, and it gave away more than I wanted.

I didn’t mean to tell a random stranger my problems, no matter how pretty he was. In fact, that appeal made me trust him less. Beautiful people treated me well only when they were setting me up for something worse. In hindsight, I should’ve been wary that day, but I was just so tired, and I wanted so bad to believe they intended to stop tormenting me. I was ready to accept the apology and move on. Everybody grows up, right?

“Here’s the deal. We’ll get something to drink, and I’ll make my proposal. If you don’t like what you hear, I’ll escort you back here and this time, I won’t stop you. I’ll even stand guard so nobody else does.”

“Why should I? You could be a murdering weirdo.”

“You intended to kill yourself anyway.”

“I was going to be quick. You might not be. Being suicidal doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

He laughed. “See, this is why I didn’t bring my car. I knew you wouldn’t get in.”

Weird. That sounded like we were old friends, but I’d remember someone like him. “You got that right.”

“You can walk five feet behind me if it makes you feel better.”

I wasn’t sure it did, but with his help, I climbed back over the guardrail. His argument made sense, and I was curious. What did I have to lose? He might try to recruit me into a cult. Nervous and wary, I trudged behind him, my eyes on his back at all times. I was ready to end things on my terms, not wind up living in a hole in somebody’s basement. That would definitely be worse. I shivered, wondering if this was the best idea. Yet curiosity refused to let me back out.

He led the way off the bridge, quite a long walk the second time around; the rocks in my pockets gained weight with each step. Eventually, we reached the street, passing a number of closed restaurants, Italian places mostly. He stopped at a twenty-four-hour diner called Cuppa Joe. The place had a giant mug out front, outlined in red neon. Inside, the vinyl booths were cracked and sealed over with silver duct tape. On the wall, a neon blue-and-pink clock buzzed, a low drone just inside my range of hearing. According to the position of the hands, it was 6:05 a.m., and I’d missed my deadline.

A couple of waitresses wore the ultimate in polyester chic, while old women sat nursing coffee with lipstick imprints on chipped cups, makeup caked into their wrinkles. There were elderly couples as well; men in plaid trousers and white belts, ladies in shirtwaists. Everyone in the diner had an odd look, like they were players on a set, and some other-worldly director was saying, Now this is what a diner looked like in 1955. I also counted too many customers for this hour. Finally, there was an expectant air, as if they had all been awaiting our arrival. I dismissed the thought as symptomatic of how surreal the day had become.

The hot samaritan sat down next to the window, so that the red light from the giant coffee cup on the roof fell across the table in waves. I took a seat opposite him and folded my hands like I was at a college admissions interview. He smiled at me. Under fluorescent lights, he was even better looking than he’d appeared on the bridge.

It didn’t make me happy.

“So is this where you call the cops? You lured me in quietly. Good job.” To my astonishment, I got the words out without a hitch. In his company, I wasn’t nervous at all, mostly because I half suspected he was a figment of my imagination.

“No, this is where I introduce myself. I’m Kian.”

Okay, not what I expected. “Edie.”

Short for Edith, who had been my maternal great-aunt. No one used my nickname, except me—in my head. At school, they called me Eat-it.

“I know who you are.”

My breath caught. “What?”

“I didn’t find you by accident.” Before I could answer, Kian signaled the waitress and ordered coffee.

She glanced at me with an inquiring expression. What the hell. If I was dying after this conversation anyway—

“I’ll have a strawberry milk shake.”

“Hey, Hal,” the waitress called. “Shake one in the hay.”

An assenting noise came from the back and then the woman went behind the counter to pour Kian’s coffee. She served it with a flourish, along with a sugar bowl and a pitcher of cream. “That’s how you take it, right?”

He smiled up at her. “Good memory, Shirl.”

“That’s why I get the big bucks.” She winked and sauntered to her next table.

I picked up the thread as he stirred cream and sugar into his drink. “Explain how you know who I am and where to find me. It sounds stalker-y, and I’m inclined to bail as soon as I finish my shake.”

“Then I have time to make my case,” he said softly. “Misery leaves a mark on the world, Edie. All strong emotions do. Rage, terror, love, longing … they’re powerful forces.”

“Right. What does that have to do with me?”

“Your pain came to my attention months ago. I’m sorry it took me so long to act, but I’m constrained by certain rules. I had to wait until you reached the breaking point before I could offer you a deal.”

“If this is where you offer a fiddle of gold against my soul, I’m out.”

His smile flashed. A little shiver of warmth went through me because he seemed to appreciate my wit. “Nothing so permanent.”

“I’m all ears,” I said as the waitress delivered my shake, hand-dipped with whorls of fresh whipped cream and a bright red cherry on top—almost too pretty to drink. Deliberately, I stirred it with my straw, ruining the beauty, and sucked up a huge mouthful.