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"Excuse me," I ventured in the softest, most mouse-like voice I could muster. The tender looked up. He was not a very big guy, kind of scrawny, middle aged. His brown hair was going a little gray on the sides. But he was fairly good-looking nonetheless, with warm brown eyes and shapely lips. I could see how thirty-three women could allow themselves to trust him for a night or two. "Hello," he said immediately. His voice was friendly enough, but cold in a way that unnerved me. "Could I have a cherry Coke, please?" While he turned to get my drink, I scrutinized him with unfeeling eyes. He was wearing plain blue jeans and a dusty white t-shirt, with regular Nike shoes. He had a black watch and curly hair. Totally ordinary. He could have been your friendly next door neighbor, or a stalwart policeman who was devoted to his job. He could have been a school teacher. He could have been a priest. But he wasn't. He was a murderer. When he turned back to hand me my drink, he gave me a hungry once-over. I pretended to be looking through my purse as he studied my bare collarbones, glossy lips, and pale skin. When I glanced back up, I made certain to look him straight in the eyes. I could almost feel him shiver with excitement. I handed him a five dollar bill and he handed me my drink. I sipped it slowly, looking down at the counter in a seemingly modest way. We talked for about an hour after that. The conversation mostly revolved around me and what my situation is. I made it as appealing as possible. I had no family, except for a daft, old aunt who lived in a nursing home in Wisconsin and couldn't even remember my name.

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