She placed a hand on my shoulder, a knowing look on her face. “In the park. With the Johnson girl.”

When I placed the cup down, I tried to do so with as much nonchalance as I could muster. Thinking of the incident with the Johnson girl was like running a finger over a raw nerve. I had been trying to help a mother out of the grieving hole she had withdrawn into when her daughter went missing. Instead, I caused a town scandal that ended up being the final straw for my stepmother. She turned against me that day and never looked back.

So, yes, the incident was a sore spot on my psyche, but I had worse. I had gaping wounds that refused to heal, and Cookie knew only a minute amount about them.

“Yes,” I said, raising my chin. “In the park. That was the third time I saw him.”

“But your life wasn’t in danger. Or was it?”

“Not at all, but maybe he thought it was. He was so mad, I think because my stepmom was yelling at me in front of all these people.” My head lowered at the memory. “And she slapped me. It was quite a shock.” I locked eyes with Cookie, suddenly wanting her to understand how afraid I was of him. “I thought he was going to kill her. He was shaking with anger. I felt it, like electricity prickling over my skin. I whispered to him as my stepmother berated me in front of half the town and begged him not to hurt her.”

Cookie’s mouth thinned in sympathy. “Charley, I’m so very sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m just not sure why he scares me so much. I can’t believe what a wuss I can be at times.”

“I’m sorry that he scares you, too, but I meant the part about your stepmother.”

“Oh, no, don’t be,” I said, shaking my head. “That was totally my fault.”

“You were five.”

After a hard swallow, I bowed my head and said, “You don’t know what I did.”

“Unless you doused the woman in gasoline and set her on fire, I’m not sure her reaction was appropriate.”

A half smile crept across my face. “I can assure you, no petroleum products were harmed in the making of that memory.”

“What happened then? With Bad?”

“I guess he heard me. He left, but he was not a happy camper.”

Cookie nodded in understanding, then said, “And I would be willing to bet one of the times he showed up was when you were in college.”

“Wow, you’re good.”

“You know, you’ve told me about how you were attacked when you were walking home after a class one night, but you didn’t tell me he was there.”

“Yep, he was. He saved me, just like he did when I was four.”

Surprise washed over her face. “Four? What happened when you were four? Wait, he saved you when you were attacked in college? How?” she asked, stumbling over the questions that were surely tumbling through her head. I realized my description and taxonomy of the Big Bad may have led Cookie to believe that he was, well, big and bad. And he was. Kind of.

But I still couldn’t tell her how he saved me. I couldn’t do that to her, not until I knew she’d be okay with the knowledge.

“He … got the guy off me.”

“Oh, my goodness, Charley. I guess I didn’t realize.… I mean, you made it sound so minuscule. And your life had been in danger?”

With a shrug, I said, “Maybe a little. There was a switchblade involved. I didn’t even know they still made those things. Aren’t they illegal?”

“He shows up when your life is in danger,” she repeated, deep in thought, “and he saved you when you were four? So, what happened when you were four again?”

I shifted in my chair, so sore I could barely manage it. “Well, I was kind of kidnapped, though not really kidnapped so much as led away.”

A hand shot to her mouth to squelch a gasp.

“God, all this sounds so awful when I say it out loud,” I complained. “I whine more than a Goth with a blogging fetish. It’s really not that bad. I actually grew up rather happy. I had lots of friends. They were mostly dead, but still.”

“Charley Jean Davidson,” she said in warning. “You cannot use the word kidnapped in a sentence, then not elaborate.”

“Fine, if you really want to know. But you’re not going to like it.”

“I really want to know.”

After a long, breathy sigh, I said, “It happened here.”

“Here? In Albuquerque?”

“Here in this building. When I was four.”

“You’ve lived in this building before?”

I suddenly felt like I was in therapy and all the things that had happened to me in the past, both good and bad, were gushing from a festering wound. But what happened in this building was the worst of the worst. The knife in my flesh, buried so deep inside me, I doubted it could ever be extracted fully. At least not without some serious anesthesia.

“No,” I said, drawing another sip, testing the rich, warm chocolate on my tongue before swallowing. “I’ve never lived here. But even before my dad bought the bar, it’d been a cop hangout. And he’d taken me to it on several occasions, quite innocently, mostly for birthday parties and such. And a few times he had to chat with his partner, as those were the eighties BC.” When Cookie’s brows slanted in question, I added, “Before cells.”

“Ah, of course.”

“But on one particular occasion, I’d upset my stepmother when I told her, in a rather matter-of-fact way, that her father had died and had crossed through me because he wanted me to give her a message. She hadn’t known yet that he’d passed away and she was furious, refused to listen. She never even let me give her the message. I didn’t understand it anyway. Something about blue towels.”