Shadowkiller by Wendy Corsi Staub

else he might turn to find that human connection.
    Not Ben, close as they were. It was one thing to confide in him about women, or work. But Ben had recently been promoted: he was no longer just Mack’s friend and colleague; he was also his manager.
    You don’t cry on your boss’s shoulder.
    Mack would have to tell Ben about his mother eventually—he would need time off to be with her. But not just yet, when his emotions were so raw that he wasn’t sure he could get through a conversation about his looming tragedy without breaking down.
    There were other friends, too, of course—friends who were always happy to share a couple of beers or watch a ball game. But guys—at least, these guys—didn’t summon each other to pour out their personal problems.
    Nor could he turn to his father or his sister or brother-in-law, or even the dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins back in Jersey. Some were closer to him than others, but they were all facing the same loss and seeking the same solace. He didn’t want to commiserate. He wanted to make sense of what was happening, or forget that it was happening, or maybe he just wanted to purge.
    Sometimes, when you needed someone, only a perfect stranger would do. Rather, a decidedly imperfect stranger.
    Carrie had nice brown hair, pleasant features, and a decent figure that, when you added them all up, fell far short of beautiful, and even somewhat short of pretty.
    But something about her appealed to him. She had struck him, Tuesday night, as—maybe not lonely. More like . . . alone. Isolated. Maybe not by choice. She was new here, probably didn’t have a lot of friends. Even if nothing came of it . . . he decided to see her again.
    â€œHi,” he’d said when he called on Friday afternoon, “it’s Mack. From the park. And the walk. The other night.”
    Another woman—a woman for whom flirting was second nature—might have quipped, in return, “Hi, Mack from the park and the walk the other night.”
    Not Carrie. She just said, “Hi.”
    That was fine with him. He wasn’t feeling flirty himself, and not in the mood to make small talk, so he got right to the point. “Do you want to get together tomorrow night? Are you busy?”
    â€œNo. I’m . . . not busy.”
    Her stilted response made him wonder if he was making a mistake, but he forged on. “So do you want to?”
    â€œThat would be nice,” she said. “Where do you want me to meet you?”
    That she didn’t assume he was going to come to her doorstep to escort her, hand on elbow, was so refreshing—and such a relief—that it didn’t strike him as unusual at the time.
    Only now, when he walked into McSorley’s and looked around for her, did it occur to him that she might have wanted to give herself an out. Or that she might not have wanted him to see where she lived, for whatever reason. Maybe she was destitute, or super-wealthy, or married  . . .
    Not immediately spotting her, his mind raced through the possibilities.
    He was right on time. Was she on her way, maybe running a little late?
    Had she stood him up?
    Taken one look around this place and fled?
    With Saint Patrick’s Day looming, the legendary Irish pub was raucous and even more crowded than usual. Nearly all the patrons were male; most of them guzzling dark or light ale from glass mugs, shouting at each other and the bartenders above the music and the other patrons who were shouting at each other and the bartenders. Those who weren’t shouting or sipping were feasting on the bar’s signature dish: wedges of orange cheese and raw onion served with saltines and hot mustard.
    Adding a visual note of chaos to the cacophony, a hodgepodge of paraphernalia—mugs, caps, framed vintage photographs and clippings—cluttered the walls all the way up to the high dark plank ceiling.
    What the hell are you