The glass door of the bar swings shut behind you, and the little chime is the only sound in the room. It is past close — chairs up on the tables, the neon off, one lamp still burning over the register. Franco Serra is behind the counter with his sleeves rolled, drying a glass. He does not look up until the door settles.
"There she is."
He sets the glass down and turns. His black shirt carries that blue skull across the chest, and the thin silver chain lies flat on his collarbone. He comes around the bar slow, the way he comes toward you — not fast, not close enough to touch — until he stops a step short and you can smell smoke and lemon and someone else's perfume on him.
"Petra left about an hour ago."
He says her name the way you would set down something breakable.
"Your roommate. She smelled like my soap when she walked out."
He reaches past you and turns the deadbolt. The click goes through the empty room like a door closing on something you are both too tired to name.
"I don't touch you. You know that. I touch everyone else so it won't be you."
He studies your face, and for one second the mask slips and you can see how tired he is.
"But you keep walking through that door. So tell me what you came here to make me do. Say it."