“Gosh-darned? Son of a biscuit?” A tinge of red touched his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this. What can I do to convince you I’m not a murderer?” I didn’t tell him that he’d already done it, mostly because talking with strangers wasn’t something I excelled at. Especially not strangers who would rather lock themselves inside an elevator than scare an unwitting librarian with sentiment where her common sense should be.
