I swallow cheap blue whiskey. The burn slides down my throat, while I drink in Killer Hands’ owner. He’s good-looking in an off-kilter sort of way: black-curled and black-eyed, aquiline nose just a little too strong for his razor-boned face, the stubble at his jawline the barest suggestion of a shadow. The hands, though—the hands are what you really notice. The hands are the reason I’ve been sitting in this shitty-ass bar, drinking its shitty-ass whiskey.