whatever it was. A Manhattan? But he greeted my eyes with a sheepish half smile.

“Is a Manhattan all right? If you don’t want it, I’ll have it. Order what you want.”

I shrugged. Red wine was what I would have chosen, but I didn’t want to make an issue out of it.

“A Manhattan’s fine.” I’d never had one, didn’t even know what was in it.

He leaned forward, resting on his elbows. I was still on edge from my walk, still getting oriented. Relax, I told myself. Make small talk and get acquainted. “Do you always wear black?” he asked.

“What?” I thought I’d heard him wrong. He couldn’t be talking about my clothes.

“Both times I’ve seen you, you’ve been in black.”

I bit my lip. He remembered what I’d worn? Even I didn’t remember what I’d worn. Well, I shouldn’t be surprised; he was a cop. An observer of details. “It’s comfortable. Hides the flaws.”

“Come on, Ms. Hayes. You don’t have to worry about flaws. You’re a stunning woman.”

Stunning again? Twice in one day? First Susan, now Stiles. But wait; I shouldn’t be so easily flattered. Maybe this was a test. Cops did that, tested people, said stuff to see how you’d react. Was he watching? Assessing my character? I hid behind the menu, avoiding his eyes. The waiter’s hands appeared, placing a Manhattan in front of me. I cleared my throat and waited for the hands to leave, ready to steer the conversation to more comfortable ground.

“Detective Stiles—”

“Call me Nick.”

Nick?

“Then call me Zoe.”

It’s okay, I told myself. There’s nothing wrong with first names between consenting adults.

Half his mouth grinned, pleased. My eyes darted away.

“Look, it was nice of you to ask me to dinner—”

“I’m glad you were able to join me. I usually grab a burger or a slice of pizza on the run. Alone. I’m still new around here, and my place is all the way out in Chester County. It’s beautiful, but isolated. So I don’t have much social life. Or much time for one, the way we’re working.”

He did look tired. Maybe even lonely. “Well, I appreciate your invitation. I don’t go out to dinner much, either.” I hadn’t planned to say that. “I mean, because of my little girl.” Or that.

“How old is she?”

“Almost six.”

“Six. First grade?”

“Kindergarten.”

He nodded. “You must be a great mom.”

Lord, I hated small talk. “She makes it easy; she’s a great kid.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully, pausing. Thank God, he was changing the subject. “So,” he began, “have you thought about what we discussed?”

I hesitated; he continued before I could answer.

“I understand if you’re worried about repercussions. Hey, I work in a bureaucracy, too; I know all about in-house politics. But don’t worry about that. Beverly and I have discussed your involvement.”

Dr. Gardener was “Beverly” now?

“She admires you quite a bit.”

“Really?” I hadn’t been aware that Beverly Gardener even knew who I was.

“Oh yes. She praised your work, said you were bright and talented. She went on about you at some length.”

I was uncomfortable, didn’t know what to say. I’d never exchanged as much as “Good morning” with the woman. When we’d passed at the Institute, she’d been intent on her own thoughts, never even made eye contact. How was it that she’d been able to go on about me at length?

“Beverly agrees that your input might prove valuable. So don’t worry about bureaucracy. You won’t be overstepping.” Overstepping? What was he talking about? Politics? Professional protocol? Would it be a problem for an Institute art therapist to help police unofficially on a case in which a hotshot Institute psychiatrist/profiler was officially consulting? Actually, I’d never considered the repercussions of that. I wasn’t sure I’d care about them, even if I had.

I swallowed some Manhattan. It wasn’t a bad drink, once you got past the initial sweetness. The cherry in my glass peered back at me like a bloodshot eyeball. Detective Stiles sat silently in the maddening manner of a detective waiting for a suspect to spill his guts. Finally, I began.

“Actually, Detective—”

“Nick,” he corrected.

“Nick. I’m not concerned about what Dr. Gardener or anyone at the Institute thinks about what I do. I make my own choices.”

“Good. Still, it’s better not to step on bureaucratic toes. Trust me.”

Trust him? Was he crazy? With those eyes? They looked at me but took in everything, the whole room, even the part behind his back. How could anyone trust a man with eyes like that? Or that crooked half smirk that somehow made him look both tough