“Next.”
“But that’s the easiest one,” I objected.
“Next,” he repeated.
I looked down, frustrated. I unrolled my silverware, picked up my fork, and carefully speared a ravioli. I put it in my mouth slowly, still looking down, chewing while I thought. The mushrooms were good. I swallowed and took another sip of Coke before I looked up.
“Okay, then.” I glared at him, and continued slowly. “Let’s say, hypothetically of course, that . . . someone . . . could know what people are thinking, read minds, you know — with a few exceptions.”
“Just one exception,” he corrected, “hypothetically.”
“All right, with one exception, then.” I was thrilled that he was playing along, but I tried to seem casual. “How does that work? What are the limitations? How would . . . that someone . . . find someone else at exactly the right time? How would he know she was in trouble?” I wondered if my convoluted questions even made sense.
“Hypothetically?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Well, if . . . that someone . . .”
“Let’s call him ‘Joe,’” I suggested.
He smiled wryly. “Joe, then. If Joe had been paying attention, the timing wouldn’t have needed to be quite so exact.” He shook his head, rolling his eyes. “Only you could get into trouble in a town this small. You would have devastated their crime rate statistics for a decade, you know.”
“We were speaking of a hypothetical case,” I reminded him frostily.
He laughed at me, his eyes warm.
“Yes, we were,” he agreed. “Shall we call you ‘Jane’?”
“How did you know?” I asked, unable to curb my intensity. I realized I was leaning toward him again.
He seemed to be wavering, torn by some internal dilemma. His eyes locked with mine, and I guessed he was making the decision right then whether or not to simply tell me the truth.
“You can trust me, you know,” I murmured. I reached forward, without thinking, to touch his folded hands, but he slid them away minutely, and I pulled my hand back.
“I don’t know if I have a choice anymore.” His voice was almost a whisper. “I was wrong — you’re much more observant than I gave you credit for.”
“I thought you were always right.”
“I used to be.” He shook his head again. “I was wrong about you on one other thing, as well. You’re not a magnet for accidents — that’s not a broad enough classification. You are a magnet for trouble. If there is anything dangerous within a ten-mile radius, it will invariably find you.”
“And you put yourself into that category?” I guessed.
His face turned cold, expressionless. “Unequivocally.”
I stretched my hand across the table again — ignoring him when he pulled back slightly once more — to touch the back of his hand shyly with my fingertips. His skin was cold and hard, like a stone.
“Thank you.” My voice was fervent with gratitude. “That’s twice now.”
His face softened. “Let’s not try for three, agreed?”
I scowled, but nodded. He moved his hand out from under mine, placing both of his under the table. But he leaned toward me.
“I followed you to Port Angeles,” he admitted, speaking in a rush. “I’ve never tried to keep a specific person alive before, and it’s much more troublesome than I would have believed. But that’s probably just because it’s you. Ordinary people seem to make it through the day without so many catastrophes.” He paused. I wondered if it should bother me that he was following me; instead I felt a strange surge of pleasure. He stared, maybe wondering why my lips were curving into an involuntary smile.
“Did you ever think that maybe my number was up the first time, with the van, and that you’ve been interfering with fate?” I speculated, distracting myself.
“That wasn’t the first time,” he said, and his voice was hard to hear. I stared at him in amazement, but he was looking down. “Your number was up the first time I met you.”
I felt a spasm of fear at his words, and the abrupt memory of his violent black glare that first day . . . but the overwhelming sense of safety I felt in his presence stifled it. By the time he looked up to read my eyes, there was no trace of fear in them.
“You remember?” he asked, his angel’s face grave.
“Yes.” I was calm.
“And yet here you sit.” There was a trace of disbelief in his voice; he raised one eyebrow.
“Yes, here I sit . . . because of you.” I paused. “Because somehow you knew how to find me today . . . ?” I prompted.