I refuse to ask these questions, but that doesn't stop me from wondering.

She's not on the back porch when I get there. As I climb the three steps, I can immediately see that the kitchen door is propped open. Stepping quietly up to the door, I look in. She's in front of the kitchen counter, her back to me. Her hands are on either side of her on the countertop, gripping tight. Her head is bowed. A knot tightens in my throat.

"You're not crying again, are you?"

She jumps and turns around, eyes wide but dry, her heartbeat suddenly thundering. As she moves aside, I can see, behind her, what she was looking at: the slowly filling coffee pot. She crosses her arms as I look at her, and I am struck again by the realization of how thin she has become. I can't stop the words that escape my lips.

"You look like a stick, Alexandra. Ever heard of something called food?"

She blinks very slowly, then her eyes narrow, and she glares at me. "What is clear is that you have never heard of tact."

I shrug. "Vampire here, remember? Tact's not required for the job."

I still can't take my eyes off her. She's changed so much, even more than I thought yesterday. Her cheeks are sunken, and there's a frailty about her that wasn't there before.

She rolls her eyes at me and grabs something from the kitchen island. She takes three steps to the door, so close that I could touch her--if I had ever been invited in her house, that is. She holds out the small, red booklet that holds my future, extending it just past the invisible barrier that separates us. I take it, and for a second we're both holding it. If there's any emotion in her eyes, on her face, I can't see it. She lets go and steps back.

"There. You can leave now."

She moves back, returning to the coffee pot. I should go, like she said, but I don't. She has left the door open, and I watch her through it. Like a moth attracted to the flame, I come a little closer to the threshold so I can see her better. I just can't help it.

I watch her turn off the coffee maker, pick up the full pot, pour coffee in a mug. The mug cradled in her hands, she turns and leans back against the counter. She doesn't seem surprised to see me still there, but she does raise an amused eyebrow when I rest my shoulder against the magic barrier that keeps me out.

"So, why did you hang on to it?" I ask when the silence becomes too heavy, tapping my passport against the doorjamb so she'll know what I'm talking about.

Her shrug seems forced. "Official document," she says. "I couldn't just throw it away."

"Kept anything else? My landlord said--"

"No, just that. It seemed the most important."

She said it too fast. She's not meeting my eyes. There's just a hint of red in her cheeks. She's lying. I'm sure she is. Why would she lie about that? What else did she keep?

"Where was it?"

For a moment, I'm not sure she's going to answer. She raises the mug to her mouth, but her lips don't even touch it. She lowers it again and says, "In the attic."

The attic. Is that where the rest is? I wonder what else there is. I had a really nice knife, souvenir from my S.E. days. The only thing left from my human life. I don't want to ask her for it. She's already said she doesn't have anything else of mine; she wouldn't admit otherwise now. On top of that, I don't want her to know it means that much to me.

"Aren't you going to invite me in for a cup of coffee?" I ask, knowing already what her answer will be.

She doesn't disappoint. "I'm not that fond of killers having an all-access pass to my house."

A short pause, and then she adds, very low: "You're a killer again, aren't you?"

The question startles me a bit, but I force an answer out. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you I'm not, would you?"

She shakes her head, before returning her attention to her mug. The aroma of the coffee has wafted to the door, and it does smell pretty nice. She has yet to take a sip from her mug, though. She peers into it as though it holds all the secrets of the universe. Eventually, her eyes come back to me.

"If you promised you're not here to hurt anyone," she says very quietly, "I'd believe you."

And why would I want her to believe me? Why would I want her not to be afraid of me? It's not like I care about what she thinks. She was never able to see past my fangs, and of course she was right. I'm a vamp, nothing else, nothing more. Just the same, what she's asking now proves that she doesn't know me, and never did, and that's only--

"I'm not here to hurt anyone, I promise," I hear myself say, and can only curse mentally.

A sad smile curls her lips, and she nods.

"There's enough coffee for two," she says. "Why don't you come in?"

Next thing I know, I'm on the floor of Alexandra's kitchen, and she's looking at me, both startled and amused. I was still leaning against the barrier when she invited me in, and certainly didn't anticipate it to be removed like that. All I can do is watch her, completely stunned. How does she always manage to do the last thing I expect from her?

Scowling a little, because she is snickering now, I get to my feet while she fills a mug for me. She sets it on the island and leans against it, her own mug resting on the granite in front of her. I sit on the other side, put in a generous spoonful of sugar and start sipping. It tastes as good as it smells. All the while, she's looking at me while pretending she's not, still holding her own mug, but she hasn't tasted it yet.

"I can see how you got so thin," I can't help myself to comment, "if you just look at your food and don't touch it, like you do that coffee."

Ah, if her eyes were stakes ... Just to prove me wrong, she takes a gulp.

"So, the dickhead likes bags of bones?" I insist, although I can't say why I do. "Where is he, anyway? Shouldn't he be keeping an eye on his honey?"

She looks hurt by the bag of bones comment, and I hide a wince in my mug. It didn't come out quite how I wanted it to sound. At least I didn't sound worried about her--because after all, I am not worried, not in the slightest. Why would I be worried when I don't even care?

"The dickhead is gone," she murmurs, and her eyes are back to the swirls in her cup.

Oh. That explains the tears, I guess. What it doesn't explain is why I want to find the idiot and kill him even more now than I did in the past two years every time I thought she was in his arms.

"So, that's why you were all teary-faced last night," I say, and it's half a question. "Want me to off him for you?"

She looks at me with something very close to horror, before shaking her head, having apparently decided that I was joking. I honestly don't know if it was a joke or not.

She sighs. "No, that's not why I was ... feeling down. He's been gone for a while. I got over it a long time ago."

The words fall out of my mouth before I can even remind myself that I don't care, shouldn't care, and should just be on my way now. Fuck this. I want to know what brought one of the strongest women I've ever known to her knees.

"So, what is it, then?" I ask softly, trying to catch her gaze.

Another sigh, another headshake. "It's complicated. Too long a story for someone who is just passing by. Don't want to bore you."

"You never bored me, Sandra."

Someone give me a stake now, and let me end this before I make an even bigger fool of myself! God, why am I even still here?

She raises her head, allowing me to see her eyes, and suddenly I remember why.