Each stage of preparation is an affirmation, a feature wrought into the mask of her mind: she fastens her hair into a loose knot, zips up a dress cut of fine black silk and steps into a pair of kitten heels. She tucks her gun and her credentials into her purse alongside her phone and walks into the bar at seven o’clock. With reddened lips, shaded eyes, and the borrowed poise of tasteful jewelry, she glides into the firelit ambiance of the dining room, through air splintered by the sounds of cutlery and soothed back into place by piano music.

She takes a seat at the bar. People come and go in the mirror behind rows and rows of pristine liquor bottles. She glimpses herself among them, held hostage between a bottle of gin and a bottle of brandy, and cultivates a mysterious smile. The panoramic windows behind her frame a sky that is washing out of cobalt by way of pale pinks, easing itself into pewter. The darkening sea looks tranquil, but inside it are riptides.

Men drift up to her. The come in all ages, all sizes. Most of them are rich and some of them are filthy rich, the shapes of their bank accounts lurking in bespoke collars, perfect diction, hidden on the soles of handmade Italian loafers. They offer her drinks. They invite her to dinner. They hint at clandestine adventures, but she disarms all of them with a soft tilt of the head and the same crafted smile. She eases them with a gentle patter of elegant words and sends them like a blown kiss back out into the night. She chases their retreats with a gracious apology: I’m waiting for someone.

“You clean up nice.”

She turns.

George is wearing a black shirt and pressed khaki pants with a pair of leather sandals. The top button is undone, cuffs loosened and turned back. She shifts her body and crosses her legs. The crease in his pants breaks at the knee, heel balancing on the lowest rung. The sweat beneath her dress turns cold. He leans back, drapes a forearm on the bar. He looks her over. His subtle scent shivers along her skin.

Emily moves a loose strand of hair behind one ear. “How long have you been on island?”

“Long enough.” George takes her hand.

She looks at her fingers, eyes tracing the shadow between them. His fingers are warm, the palm soft. “Don’t you think this is a little much?”

“No.” His thumb brushes her knuckles. “This moment is sweet.”

“Oh?”

He starts to smile. “It’s so much better than Shaughnessy.”

She pulls her hand out of his. “Are you sure about that?”

“That stuff about Francesca.” He leans an elbow onto the bar and rests his cheek in his hand. “About imagining her dead heart under your fingers.” He looks in her eyes. “Was it true?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I think it was.” He runs a light finger down the back of her arm, his eyes following the course of his fingertip. “I think you liked telling me. Did you like telling me, Emily?”

Gooseflesh stirs to life inside her skin. The fine hairs stiffen. He smiles and brushes their tips with the backs of his fingers. Each sound in the dining room rises up through the auditory broth and sharpens into focus; each clink of waterlogged ice whispers along the insides of her thighs, each scrape of silverware glides through the roots of her hair and the overlapped inflections of voices ride her rising pulse. He leans closer and his fingers fall across the inside of her knee, warm and heavy-knuckled. The sensation releases heat into her bloodstream. Her ribs spread in a sudden deep breath. She moves a hand over his wrist and he moves his mouth in close to her ear. His nails stroke the side of her calf. The clink of ice slides into her loins. Her breath hits the back of her throat and her clit aches, throbbing through a ghost of cold.

“I think it’s time to get out of here,” he whispers.

His words pour hot into her ear and spread into goosebumps. Her fingers tighten around his forearm. He keeps his mouth close to her cheek as he slides a hand onto the small of her back. Her thumb slides into the web between his thumb and forefinger, hooks onto his palm, squeezes. The shape of his smile weaves through the sound of his breath.

She turns toward him but keeps her eyes on the bartender. “Are you sure about that?”

The bartender’s back is to her. He rinses out a martini glass and Emily watches him, imagining blood in the water, pink swirls falling into an eye of darkness.

“Yeah.”

She turns her head, glances at his belt. “Are you armed?”

“You wanna pat me down?”

“Yeah. I do.”

He looks at her mouth. “You don’t want to do that here,” he murmurs. “Do you?”

Emily turns away from George and beckons the bartender. He walks over, a towel draped across his elbow.

“Can I get a glass of wine?”

“Your usual?”

Her smile hesitates, turns dazzling. “Yes.”

“How about you, sir?”

“Glenlivet 21.” George’s thumb rubs the seam of her zipper. “Neat.”

The bartender nods. “Very good.”

“So.” Emily turns toward him and let her fingers fall onto his knee. She looks down, draws a lazy circle around the kneecap with the tip of a finger. “Who was your first?”

George’s eyebrows lift. He looks down at her hand. “My first?”

She leans over, murmurs into his ear: “Kill.”

He lowers his voice. “You think I’m gonna tell you that?”

The bartender uncorks a bottle and pours a glass of white wine. Emily leans back and picks it up. She takes a long sip. “Will you tell me how old you were?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

A corner of his mouth curls. “It’s not in my profile.”

The bartender puts down a napkin and centers the glass of Scotch on top of it. Emily returns the long-stemmed glass to the bar. “You want to know how I imagine it?”

George picks up the Scotch. “Yeah.” He smiles. “I’d like to know.”

“When I imagine it,” she says, swallowing, “I see a girl.” Emily looks into his eyes. “She’s young and fair-skinned, long limbed, just barely grown into adulthood. Sometimes she’s blonde, sometimes she’s brunette, and her hair is always long and straight. A nice girl from a nice neighborhood.” She feels for the wine glass, retrieves it by the stem. “You aren’t much older. Not even old enough to drink.” She takes a small sip. “You’re a good-looking boy from the right family, so getting her interested is easy.”

George watches her face over the rim of his glass.

“There’s a knife. You’ve had it for a couple of years. It’s never cut anything. You’ve taken it out, rested the blade on your pulse just to imagine what it would feel like, but it’s not the same. You can’t know that yet, but you know that some things are all instinct.” She puts the glass down. “The first time is always messy and you’re no exception. You can’t catch the arteries on the first swipe and once you’ve pulled away the power is gone and she runs. You think maybe you should’ve used the knife beforehand, you know, let the handle and your palm get to know each other first. Maybe you should’ve picked a different tool.”

He watches the subtle shifts in her body, how the narrative rides her skin.

“It takes some chasing and wrestling but in the end you get it done. The stink of her blood, the minerals inside it, fill your nose. Maybe that’s what makes you come in your shorts. Maybe it isn’t. Perhaps the resistance of flesh against the blade does that when you start stabbing her. When you’re done maybe you wash up in the sea and drag the body out into the ripcurrents. Maybe you dump her in the Charles River and burn your clothes in a trashcan fire. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the…what? The scratched itch? The new calm? The bright colors in the world? This is how I see it: this girl, walking through your life and signaling with the flow of her limbs that she wants to be broken. Her hair, giving off a scent that only you can smell. She’s like a zebra.” She pauses. “Can’t fight nature.”

“Is that how you see yourself, Emily?” He takes a drink. “A lost girl who smells like…vulnerability?”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “No. I’m the woman with the sunglasses and the video camera, composing voice-overs in my head.”

George looks at the curve of her neck. “I wish it had been like that.”

She tips back the last of her wine. “Oh…you mean it wasn’t?”

“No.”

She sets down the empty glass. “Was I even close?”
“Did you like telling me?”

“Yes.” A small smile tucks into the corners of her mouth. “I liked it.”

He leans forward. His face hovers over hers. She softens and grows still. Her breath underlines the trembling seconds and with a tilt of her head she pushes aside the remaining distance. The first brushing kiss is tentative. She slides a hand up back of his neck and it turns over, falling into something soft and hungry. She sighs. He puts his hands on her face.

“Time to go,” he whispers.