“What kind of dream?” “I don’t know. Maybe it was a memory. You were there, though.” 54 My stomach sinks. “Were you chopping me into four pieces with a kitchen knife?” “We were dancing.” I slump, relieved. “Dancing . . . in a club?” He shoots me a dirty look like he knows what a club is and wouldn’t be caught dead inside one. “More formal than that.” He chews some more. “I liked your dress.” A smile starts. Turns into a private thing—between Lazlo and his own thoughts. “A lot.”
OH?
