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“Please demonstrate.”
“I didn’t bring the shoes with me.” I twisted my face into a fake frown.
Mr. Sutherland huffed, exasperated. “Your parlor trick, Miss Puckett. Please demonstrate your technique.”
I chuckled, biting into my sandwich. This used to be my dad’s favorite game. When we were waiting at a restaurant or running errands, he’d pick somebody and ask me to tell him their story. Where they were from, what they were doing at the grocery store, who they had to go home to. The stories entertained Daddy, but watching people helped me pick up the right cues, the little things that made for great photos. It was a game that helped me wriggle out of some of the disastrous scenarios I found myself in, long after Daddy lost interest in playing.
I scanned the dining room and jerked my chin toward a man sitting at the counter. “Fine. You see the guy over there? He’s on his way home to his wife after a week of doing incredibly irresponsible stuff with his buddies. Fishing, boating, something like that. He knows she’s going to be mad at him about something, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to drive the rest of the way home.”
“How can you tell?”
“He’s twisting his wedding ring around his finger as he bobs his knee at a hundred miles an hour. We’re in the heart of fly-fishing country. He’s sunburned something awful, except right around the eyes, probably from fishing or boating with sunglasses on. A woman would remind her husband to put on sunscreen, whereas a bunch of other guys wouldn’t care. And he’s been looking at his cell phone as if he thinks it’s going to bite him. He’s waiting for her to call and ask where he is and why the hell he isn’t home yet.”
“You’re just guessing,” he said, smirking derisively.
“It’s all just guessing. That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
As if on cue, the cell phone rang, and the man started stuttering apologies and “Now, honey’s.” I beamed at Mr. Sutherland and popped another fry into my mouth.
“You’re really very good at that,” he said, equally confused and awed.
“Try not to sound so amazed,” I chided. “I do have some skill sets.”
“Yes, cage fighting and impeccable deductive reasoning.”
“I’ve never been in a cage. Where are you getting a cage?” I laughed.
He smirked at me, and I could just make out a hint of a dimple in his cheek. “It’s far more interesting in my head if there’s a cage.”
“That’s a psychological clue that I’m not willing to explore.” I took a bite of my sandwich and took a moment to appreciate the ambrosial combination of turkey, melted cheese, and bacon. “So, Collin Sutherland, Revolutionary War soldier,” I said, lowering my voice so the patrons at the other tables didn’t hear. “You’re a vampire. Why are you afraid to fly?”
“Did no one ever teach you how to make polite conversation?” he grumbled, stirring the coffee he was using as a “blending-in” prop.
“You would be so bored with me right now if someone had.”
“Have you ever read the statistics regarding accidents in air travel?” he asked.
“Yes, they’re lower than the rates of accidents while driving. And you’re pretty much indestructible, as long as you fly at night.”
He frowned. “Well, once one has survived one plane crash, tempting fate again seems ill advised.”
“You’ve survived a plane crash?”
“In the 1940s, when air travel for passengers was very new,” he said. “Kicking your way out of a crumpled fuselage rather ruins the thrill of vacationing.”
“And you never tried flying again?”
“I haven’t left the area immediately surrounding my house since 1948.”
I spluttered, “H-how? Wh-why?”
“Delivery services. An understanding undead business manager who was willing to handle many of life’s little details for me. Friends who were willing to bring human donors to the house. And there’s a ready supply of wildlife in the area if I wanted to vary my diet.”
“But how do you make a living?”
“Until my withdrawal from society, I made my living in the antiques business.”
“You had a store?”
