Moving casually, like I just invited him over for a nightcap, he pulls out my chair and nods graciously toward it, as if to say, Rest yourself, if you please, my lady. He must not realize that chivalry and home invasion don’t typically go hand-in-hand. When I refuse, he shrugs and sinks into it, as nonchalant as ever. He leans back, crosses an ankle over the opposite knee, folds his hands in his lap, and looks at me.
“Don’t tell me what to do in my own apartment.”
I don’t move. My wrists are tingling where he held them. The Taser is on the floor way off to my left, spent and useless.
He pushes the other chair out from the table with his foot. It scrapes across the tile and stops in front of me.
“Sit,” he says again. “I just want to talk.”
I look at the chair. I look at him.
Then, wit
