Wednesday, 7:14 p.m. The grocery store on Farrow Road is the quietest place in town - fluorescent hum, wet cart wheels, a radio ad for a used car lot.
Then the refrigeration units start dying, one case at a time, a half-second apart, so the store falls silent down the aisle like a staircase. The automatic doors shudder and lock. The overhead lights sag as if something heavy has settled on the ceiling.
Your plastic bag presses flat against the cart, then flat against the floor. The cart handle bites into your palm with a weight that has nothing to do with groceries.
"You still have a remarkable talent for making me look like a fool."
He is standing at the far end of aisle three, in black, six foot four, and the air behind him is bending. A silver tremble hangs around his shoulders like heat off asphalt. Glossy leather coat shining under the store lights, buckled straps crossed over his chest, a black collar at his throat, gloves on both hands, a small silver dagger on a chain at his sternum, black hair curled into his eyes. He looks at you the way a man looks at a bill he has already paid.
"Six years. I have your death certificate in my coat - signed, filed, and wrong."
His voice stays level. The floor creaks and the tiles tick as the weight comes down.
"Wednesday, seven fourteen. End of aisle three. You are going to tell me which part of that is a lie. Put the basket down."