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“You know that’s the preferred drink of psychopaths.” The bartender set my gin and tonic down in front of me hard enough that it sloshed over the lip of the cloudy glass, darkening the half rotten wooden bar like a shadow.
Doing something would cause a scene, and normal people didn’t want that. I, on the other hand, knew that some people were more useful as fertilizer for my mushroom garden than taking up oxygen.
“You’re tempting me to make a very bad decision, little finch.” I blinked at the nickname. “Finch?” “Because male house finches have a bright red head. Like you.”
