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reticence, we eyed each other with similar scrutiny. I deliberated but eventually opted for utter transparency.
    First asking her to sit, I kept my voice low as I recounted the premonition clearly, as if I were watching it on the wall behind her. When I’d finished the short but vivid story, I watched her tears fall in horror. Telling her had clearly been a mistake. I opened my mouth to apologize again, but she jumped up and hugged me, practically landing in my lap.
    “Okay, if anything is inappropriate, it might be this,” I half joked. A big part of me relished the affection, however awkward and potentially unprofessional. I had the sinking notion that it was something my life had sorely lacked.
    She snorted a laugh and released me, standing up straight. Now unguarded and off the clock, Vivien Bonnar was an entirely different person. “It’s so dangerous for me to believe you, but I can’t stop myself from hoping. At worst, it reminds me that it’s still possible.”
    I smiled, relieved.
    “I’m also absolutely positive that I cannot be your therapist.”
    “Yeah, you broke up with me already,” I said, snark and sarcasm saving me from the dread of seeing someone else and talking through all this crap again.
    She laughed and it brightened my spirits. “I’ll make sure you’re referred to someone great, I promise. Don’t worry! I can see your wheels churning.”
    “Now who’s psychic?”
    “Well,” she said, grinning widely. She leaned forward to squeeze my hand. “I hope I’m not overstepping any bounds myself by asking if you could deal with me as your friend?”
    “Excuse me?” Trying to loosen her up during our daily sessions over the past couple of weeks had failed to significantly crack her professional demeanor. I couldn’t help but be surprised.
    She laughed again, louder. “What? You don’t have room in your entourage?”
    I smirked. “Rude.”
    I felt better than I could remember.
     

Chapter Two
    Grey
    Numb
     
     
     
    I scanned the entirety of the rundown restaurant, spotted my reflection in the window, and paused. Washed out and pale with a generous five o’clock shadow, I turned away. I knew what I looked like, but it was all a lie. I didn’t really exist. And after more than a decade in this profession, that was probably the only thing I truly believed.
    I was a faceless, nameless ghost. No one noticed me unless I wanted them to, and if I did, I was the last thing they saw.
    Assassin, hitman, mercenary. No matter the title, I was the definition of a killer and an unfortunate reality most of the world would rather not acknowledge.
    The air conditioning in the diner was maxed—unsurprising for July in the South. The row of windows along the front offered an unobstructed view of the parking lot and adjacent roads. With five families, two senior couples peppering the booths and three separate men at tables, the diner was busy but not overcrowded. The long, curved counter hosted a solitary truck driver and a couple of young girls a few seats down from me.
    I occupied the end with a full scope of the room. I kept silent, the wall at my back. Not paranoia, just routine. For me, though, they were the same thing.
    One by one I sized them up. Evaluating surroundings for potential threats was second nature.
    The clinking of dishes and pans and the sizzling of the grill told me the number of kitchen staff—five, not including the waitstaff going in and out. Of those, there were three. Some conversations were muddled and quiet, attempting privacy, while others, like the largest of the families, clucked and snapped obnoxiously. The oldest had been grounded for sneaking out her window to see her boyfriend. The youngest two dueled with lightsabers via the available spoons, complete with sound effects.
    Two tables over, an elderly couple silently eschewed conversation for staring blankly out the window. The wife absently picked at her mashed potatoes and smacked her dentures.
    I avoided eye