“What was she like?”

“I didn’t know her well. She was gorgeous. Blond, brown eyes, like you. So many customers came in just for her. She seemed nice. Not catty, like some of the other girls.” With a chuckle, she admits, “She was a pole dancer as well. You remind me of her. Your style, I mean. You’re classy and kind of artistic, if you can use the word artistic to describe that sort of thing.”

“And her fiancé? You said he killed her?”

She takes a long sip of her drink as her head bobs up and down. “Yeah . . . their relationship was all a little bit fast and strange. I think Penny had really low self-esteem and was just looking for a nice guy who’d want her. She wasn’t the kind of girl who ever took school seriously or had a lot of ambition. More the type to pop out a baseball team and bake pies for the rest of her life.” A quick hand goes up. “No judgment here! That many babies is ambitious. And I plan on baking pies too. Only I’ll be doing it for customers at my high-end wine country inn. But . . .” She pauses. “The guy was a customer. A quiet, balding man. Nothing special. But one private dance from her and he was sunk.”

I wonder if that’s why Cain won’t let me do private dances.

Ginger nods slowly. “He came in to visit almost every night. Took her out to dinner and sent her flowers a lot. We weren’t too surprised when she showed up at work with a rock on her hand after only a few months. He didn’t want her dancing anymore, and I remember her saying that no one other than her husband could tell her what to do, so . . .” Ginger’s shoulders lift and drop.

“What else do you remember about her?”

Ginger’s mouth twists in thought. “She was a bit flighty. One week she was gushing over the beach wedding they were going to have, the next week it was going to be a big church wedding in her hometown. Then, all of a sudden, she was leaving the next day for Vegas.”

Nodding slowly, I ask, “And Cain? How did he take it?”

Ginger’s shoulders bob. “He shook the guy’s hand, said congratulations. I don’t know . . . Cain is Cain. If something was going on between them, they hid it well. He never came out to drool over her onstage every night . . .” I feel Ginger’s sidelong glance at me, but I keep my eyes trained on the television. “I don’t know that Penny was the type to hold a secret like sleeping with the boss, though.”

“What happened after she died?”

Ginger puffs out her cheeks and releases a lung’s worth of air. “It was messy. Roger was convicted and he went to jail. The Bank never reopened after that night. Cain sold it as soon as the cops were done with their investigation. Apparently he disappeared for a month to do God knows what. The only person he’d talk to was Nate, who lived with him at the time.

“And then suddenly he showed up at my apartment one day a few months later, telling me he was opening up a new club in Penny’s name and asking me if I wanted a job.”

We fall into silence then as I mull over her words. Is that why he has taken to me as he has? Because I remind him of someone he clearly cared deeply for? Possibly loved? Am I just a living memory?

I’ll never get a chance to find out. I’ve accepted that I have to leave.

Tomorrow.

I can’t risk going to another drop after what happened with Bob. And I’ve likely inspired some doubt on Sam’s part now, with my questions. For all I know, Sam could be on a plane, heading down here to interrogate me.

But am I ready for this?

Can I just pick up and walk away from this little apartment I’ve unintentionally started thinking of as home? Can I say good night to Ginger tonight when really I mean goodbye?

Can I just walk away from Cain? Forget what might have been?

Into the quiet, dimmed apartment, I hear myself say, “Ginger, you’re a really good friend.”

There’s a long pause, and I imagine she’s wondering if there’s something else I’m not saying. Finally she just sighs. “I know I am, Charlie.”

I may be a tad paranoid.

Still, I hold my gun close to my thigh as I peer through the blinds at the unfamiliar man outside my window, a slight tremble to my grip. In his dark khaki pants and white golf shirt, with an electronic signature machine and a large white box in his hands, he definitely looks like a delivery guy. But what is he delivering? And how did he get in here? I didn’t buzz him in.

I flip the safety switch off but then quickly flip it back on as memories of my old neighbor shooting himself in the foot flash through my mind. I shouldn’t even be holding a gun right now, as tired as I am after tossing and turning all night, my stomach roiling, unable to shut my mind off as it tried to convince me to stay. At about six a.m,, I finally gave up and crawled out of bed to pack.

The only thing I’ve been certain of since is that I have to watch my back. Be wary of strange things. Like deliverymen outside my door. For all I know, Sam knows exactly where I moved and is sending me another warning, because last night’s warning wasn’t quite clear enough.

Maybe it’s a severed head.

With a shudder, I stay frozen behind the curtain, thankful that he can’t see me, watching quietly as the stranger knocks again, louder this time. He waits another minute and then turns to leave, muttering under his breath something unintelligible.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Threat abandoned.

That is, until I see Tanner lumbering through the common area in his requisite plaid shorts and too-tight T-shirt. The guy quickly intercepts him, holding the package out. Tanner’s hand reaches out for the electronic signature machine.

Shit.

What if Tanner is nosy? What if he takes the box inside his apartment and opens it up? There’s no reasonable explanation for why a person would send me a human head.

I quickly set my gun on the floor and then dart out my apartment door and run toward them, just as the delivery guy is handing the box over to Tanner. “Hello!” I yell in a rush. “I think that’s for me!” Both of them turn to stare at me.

I yank the box out of Tanner’s hands before he has a chance to object. “Sorry, I just missed the door,” I offer to the middle-aged delivery guy, whose jaw is hanging open. With a glance down, I realize that I’m still in the white tank top—sans bra—and thong that I slept in.

Stripper or not, I should be embarrassed to be caught like this outside of work, but I’m too on edge right now. With my heart pounding inside my chest, I turn and hustle back into my apartment—fully aware of the view the deliveryman and Tanner are getting—before I slam the door shut behind me and hug the box to my chest.

My skin prickles. The box is cold. Like it’s been in refrigeration.

Severed heads need refrigeration.

“Damn Ginger and that f**king movie!” I know it’s insane and highly improbable, and yet I can’t dislodge the thought now, as I walk with a sinking stomach and wobbly knees toward my dining table to set the parcel down. With my fingers balled up into tight fists, I stare at the simple, tall white box, adorned with a purple ribbon but displaying no other identifiable markings.

A head would fit nicely in there.

Maybe the real Charlie Rourke’s head?

Holding my breath, I rip open the top of the box and pull back the tissue paper.

And exhale noisily.

Flowers?

Someone sent me flowers?

My curiosity peaked and my heart saved from explosion, I reach inside and pull out a stunning bouquet in a plain glass vase. All kinds of flowers—at least a dozen different varieties. But they all have one thing in common: their color.