“You’re very good,” she said, tilting her head. “The scruffy stubble is a nice touch. But your shoes are brand new Italian leather. Ornithologists don’t wear shoes that cost more than my car.”
“Easy money,” Julian murmured, studying her photograph. She was pretty in a chaotic way – ink-stained fingers, eyes that looked like they’d just seen a ghost. She was a walking, talking trigger for his particular brand of poison. Romantic Killer
The campaign lasted two weeks. Julian deconstructed fate, chance, soulmates, and even the chemical reaction of oxytocin. Luna listened, munched on her sourdough, and agreed with every logical point. “You’re absolutely right,” she’d say, wiping a crumb from her lip. “Love is statistically improbable and biologically irrational.” “You’re very good,” she said, tilting her head