Free Shadowkiller by Wendy Corsi Staub Page B

of course, she couldn’t. So she focused on listening to him talk, wondering what it would be like to connect—really connect—with him.
    Granted, her experience in that area was pretty limited. She was almost thirty and reasonably attractive; she’d gone on a handful of dates over the past decade or so.
    Never anything serious, of course, because she’d learned the hard way that you can’t trust even the person you love more than anything in this world; the person who claims to love you in just the same way. She would never, ever let anyone get close to her. Never again.
    Not even if someone ever came along who seemed to want to get close to her.
    This guy—Mack, with the easy smile and quick laugh that belied the hint of sadness in his eyes—hadn’t indicated that he was interested in anything more than company for his walk up Fifth Avenue. If he were, she didn’t know what she’d do. A date with someone to whom she was this physically attracted might be dangerous.
    But for the moment, it was nice to have someone to talk to about something other than the weather and the stock market.
    The protesters in the park had spurred a conversation about politics that then meandered to travel, and on to food, and movies. The discussion turned to books when they reached the famous stone lions in front of the public library. As they made a left onto Forty-second Street, Mack asked Carrie what she was reading now.
    â€œ Harry Potter ,” she said after a moment’s hesitation, selecting a title she’d seen open on countless strangers’ laps on the subway lately.
    â€œIsn’t that a kids’ book?”
    Was it?
    She had no idea. She shrugged, said, “I like it,” and prayed he wouldn’t ask her anything specific about the story.
    What he asked, though, was even harder: “Do you have kids?”
    â€œNo,” she said, so sharply that he glanced over at her.
    â€œNot big on kids, huh?”
    â€œWhat? Why do you say that?”
    â€œJust . . . never mind. It was stupid.”
    Yes. It was stupid , she thought, enraged.
    It wasn’t that she didn’t like kids, it was . . .
    But that was none of his business.
    Even which books she liked to read was none of his business, which was why she’d lied. She wasn’t about to tell him about the stack of titles on her nightstand. Definitely not after the way he’d reacted to Harry Potter .
    â€œWhat are you reading?” she asked Mack, as much to defuse her own anger as to break the awkward silence.
    â€œIf I said Harry Potter , would you believe me?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou’d be right.”
    Yes. I’m always right.
    He reached into his briefcase and held out a book.
    She slowed her pace to see the title, reading it aloud. “ Final Gifts: Understanding the Special Awareness, Needs, and Communications of the Dying. ”
    â€œJust a little light reading.” He tucked it back into his bag.
    She didn’t know what to say. Whatever she’d been expecting—this wasn’t it. Now she understood the sadness in his eyes, although not entirely.
    Who was dying? Someone close to him?
    Was he dying?
    That would be horribly unfair.
    The thought was immediate, and struck her as bizarre.
    Unfair to whom? To him?
    Yes, of course.
    But maybe also . . . to me? Because I actually like him?
    â€œI’m actually not reading it yet,” he told her. “I just bought it at lunchtime. It was recommended to me by the hospice nurse who’s going to be taking care of my mom.”
    His mom. Not him.
    She was relieved—for his sake, she told herself, and not for hers, because after two more blocks, she was never going to see him again anyway.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “That must be hard.”
    â€œYeah. We just found out. The doctors say that nothing more can be done for her—they’ve run out of treatments,