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Hey, Erin! First of all, I am so sorry for the late response: I was away at Miraval, and we weren't allowed to use our cell phones! I'm back now, and, second, Jack and I would love nothing more than to meet up with you to discuss all things bling! Let me know your availability — we'll work with your schedule!

I receive the text from Courtney as I cross the street. I only take a cursory look at it and frown as I count not one, not two, but four exclamation points. Jesus, was she having a seizure while she wrote this?

"Erin, over here!"

I look up from my phone. Doc is waving at me. He's sitting at a table, his back to the street. The patio is packed already, and a server weaves through the maze of tables and chairs to deliver a carafe of water to a couple near the back.

I drop my phone into my purse; Courtney Taylor can wait a couple hours. I find myself walking behind a pair of college students who not only take up the entire sidewalk but also walk at five miles per hour. I knock one of their shoulders as I pass them and smile to myself when I hear her go, "Ow!"

"Hey, Doc," I say as I approach his table.

Doc stands up and opens his arms wide. I let him hug me while I give him a light pat on the back. "I like your hair like that," he says as he lets go and gestures for me to sit.

I flick a lock behind my shoulder. I had straightened it this morning until it resembled a glossy black sheet. "Thank you." We both settle into our seats.

"How are you doing?" Doc is wearing a sage button-down with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of white khakis. His watch — a Patek Philippe — resembles a silver disk on his wrist as it reflects off the sunlight.

"Good," I say. "How are you, post-Code Red?" It's not so much that I'm concerned for Doc's mental well-being but rather that I'm curious whether he's noticed how swiftly and effortlessly I had controlled crazy old Mrs. Yarrow. We hadn't been able to do our debrief that evening because somebody had ended up resting longer than she should have, and I had to stay overtime to ensure that she hadn't fallen onto her face or, better yet, died.

"Nothing I'm haven't experienced before," he says. "But you, Erin — you saved my ass. As you always do, and I know you know, but thank you. You're quick and compassionate and that makes you a valuable member of the team, and I don't want you to forget that. Seriously."

I smile. "I appreciate that," I say. "Doesn't hurt that I have the great boss." Let's be real, as a boss, Doc's good, but I'm sure there are better. Doc laughs out loud. He's a little bit like me in that he enjoys a compliment, except unlike me, he can't tell the difference between a genuine one and the one I just gave him. Sometimes, it makes me sad that not everyone can be as intuitive as I am.

"Ah, and there's Sadie," he says. He raises his arm and waves his hand in the air. He stands back up, but I stay sitting. Sadie comes toward us, in her black scrubs and her hair tied back in its usual suffocating bun. Ugh, could she not have changed into something more presentable for this meeting?

"Hey, guys!" She and Doc embrace. When they separate, she turns to me and gives me a little wave. She drops into the seat right next to me. Her perfume smells like she'd bought it from Kmart, and it envelopes me in a cheap vanilla berry haze that makes me want to cough.

Every month, the three of us meet up at a random restaurant near the office and "bond." Doc's word, not mine. I don't know how much bonding you can do with your boss and a coworker who gets on your nerves, but, as esteemed members of the premier Moretti & Associates' club, here we are.

The waitress — her nametag reads Paige — comes over then, but she doesn't notice the two of us. She's all gaga for Doc, and he's ever the gracious gentleman. Their conversation fades into the background.

I look over at Sadie. "What perfume is that?" It really is so overpowering.

She perks at being asked a question by me. Her desperation to become friends could not be more obvious. "It's Blackberry Velvet," she says.

"'Blackberry Velvet'?"

"Yeah! I can lend you some if you like it."

I bring up a palm. "It's okay. I have my own."

"You have Blackberry Velvet, too?"

I scoff. "God, no."

Her face falls, but Doc turns to us then and says, "How hungry are we?"

"I can eat," I say.

"Same!"

Doc pushes up his glasses and looks back up at Paige whose eyes have yet to leave him. "Give us a couple minutes, and we'll be ready to order," he says. "Thanks, Paige."

"Of course!" Paige says. "Thank you. And your name is...?"

"Adam," he says.

"Lovely to meet you, Adam," Paige says. Laughter bubbles up inside me, but I pretend to cough instead.

Doc's head snaps to me. "You okay? You need more water?"

I give him my best smile. "No, no, I'm good."

Paige tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She lingers, but Doc doesn't look at her again. "By the way, Erin, how's your jewelry business coming along?"

Paige glances between the two of us. Then, realizing her moment has passed, she dips her head and leaves. Buh-bye. I take out my phone and go to the camera roll. I tap on the ones I had made for Isadora Dearing and the pear-shaped beauty I had made two nights ago; I had hand-delivered the latter during my lunch break yesterday to a stay-at-home mom of two named Patricia, and she had shrieked so loudly that her children had come downstairs to see what sort of breakdown their mother was having this time.

I pass the phone over to Doc, and Sadie leans over to peer at the photos as well. Doc widens his eyes. "Cazzo, Erin! You made all of these? They are gorgeous!"

"You're so talented!" Sadie says. "I love the marquise."

"Agreed. I'm so proud of you."

I'm so proud of you. The words ring in my ears, and, for a moment, I can't do anything but stare back at Doc who is looking at me as if I've just won first prize. And then, the moment is over, and I take back my phone and put it back into my purse. "Thank you," I say. "If you know of anyone who needs a ring, let me know." Step one to being a successful entrepreneur is to turn any opportunity into a potential sell.

Sadie claps her hands. "I've always loved looking at engagement rings, and to know someone who can make the prettiest ones is so exciting!"

Her enthusiasm is always irritating, but today, right now, I allow myself to smile slightly when I say, "Thanks, Sadie."

"Sadie, how are you doing? How's Ben?" Doc asks her.

The conversation devolves into one where Sadie tells Doc about that bagel place, DoughDough Bagels, she had told me about earlier this week, as well as her boyfriend, Ben Something, I forget his last name. I tune them both out, and when Paige returns, I order a Caesar salad with extra grilled chicken. The image of Manhattan wives with their rotund bellies and swollen ankles and puffy cheeks causes me to shudder, and I had vowed to myself that I would never let myself go like that.

By the time I decide to listen in on the conversation again, Doc and Sadie are talking about dogs. Sadie, apparently, has a French bulldog named Clover who is three years old. She had gotten him as a puppy, and she had cried "a bunch" during the puppy phase, but now, he's a "precious little cinnamon roll." Yawn.

As for Doc, in his hometown of Matera, he had lived with his parents, two sisters, his nonna and nonno, and three dogs, a Volpino named Bella, an Italian Greyhound named Luna, and a Maltese named Amore. Talk about the worst dog names of all time.

"Do you have a dog, Erin?" Sadie asks me.

"No," I say.

Doc and Sadie don't respond, and I realize they're waiting for me to continue. I raise my brow at them. I don't need to explain myself; animals exist in their world, and I exist in mine. There is no reason to combine the two.

"How about a cat?" Doc asks.

"Why would I get a cat?"

Sadie giggles. Doc purses his lips. "I can see you with a Persian."

"No, I see her with a Burmese!" Sadie counters.

"Are we still talking about cats?"

Doc snaps his fingers. "A Sphynx."

"Yes, a Sphynx!"

"Is that the naked, wrinkly one?" They nod. I recoil. "I would never."

They laugh, thinking I'm joking. I open my mouth again to snap at them both, never mind that I have to see them at work, but before I can, Paige comes back, her arms laden with our dishes. She sets the bowl of salad in front of me and does the same for the rest. For the next few minutes, we eat in silence. The salad is quite good; my expectations had been low, but the dressing is creamy, the breadcrumbs are crunchy and seasoned well, and the lettuce is fresh. The chicken, too, is tender and has an aftertaste of smoke from the grill.

Around us, people mill about, walking home from work or in groups with their friends. Local residents walk their dogs, not that I can recognize a single breed, and joggers weave through the passersby, their skin shiny with sweat.

The days are getting longer, so the sky is still light with the sun. A breeze swirls in through the patio. Laughter from the other customers provide an accompaniment to the clattering of silverware on china.

It is at this moment that I think of The Barbie Slayer. I wonder where he is right now, what he's doing, whether he's stalking his next victim, or enjoying dinner with the view of the setting sun like we are. I have always enjoyed true crime, though serial killers were never quite my object of interest: they always got caught, didn't they? If they really were so smart, they would still be roaming about, creating countless content for me to binge-watch while I tinkered away on my rings.

"Have you seen the news lately?" I ask. "About The Barbie Slayer?"

"Ooh, The Barbie Slayer," Sadie says. "I've been sort of keeping up with the updates, but I can't watch at night. I get so creeped out. Why do you think he targets who he does?"

I smirk. "Probably to avenge a life-long inferiority complex from getting rejected by someone who looked like Barbie."

Doc reaches for his glass of wine. "Do you think it's really that simple?"

"Typically, yes."

"What if they have a good reason for it?"

I pause. "For killing people?"

"No, not that," he says, shaking his head. "But there had to have been a good reason for him to get to the point of killing."

"What would be a good reason?"

Doc slices through his filet mignon, which is perfectly medium rare on the inside. The juices mix with the blood on his white plate; he stabs his fork into the slice of steak and uses it to sop them up. "Trauma," he says.

"Everybody has trauma," I say.

"Fair," Doc says. "I suppose I'm just trying to figure out what his tragic backstory is. All serial killers have a tragic backstory, don't they?"

Sadie pipes up. "I'm thinking of all the true crime I've watched, and, for many serial killers, they've always had such horrible childhoods. I'm not trying to justify any of their actions, by the way. Just kind of sad that they never got the help they deserved before they became the infamous killers that they are now known as."

Who cares what these killers were like as children? They're killers now, and that's all that matters. But Doc and Sadie seem to think differently; worse, they're trying to understand them for reasons I cannot begin to fathom. It takes a special type of idiot to work as a healthcare provider — the occupation makes you soft and weak, and I'm seeing the evidence of it right before me. Does that say something about me, to willingly work alongside them? "Or they could just be complete psychos," I say.

"Or that," Sadie says, agreeing. "Whatever his story is, he needs to get caught soon. Those poor women." Her voice cracks.

"Yes," Doc says. He raises his glass of wine. "Here's to hoping that all those women get the justice they deserve, and that maniac gets locked up for good." I raise my glass of water, and Sadie lifts her lemonade. We clink.

We move onto other topics, such as meal prepping, the weather, this new movie that recently came out starring Joaquin Phoenix that both Doc and Sadie have watched but I haven't, more dogs, the upcoming OBGYN convention, and then, hallelujah, bonding time is over.

Paige comes with the bill, and she compliments him on his eyes as he takes it. He chuckles, tells her that no, she has prettier eyes. Meanwhile, Sadie tries to wrangle the bill, to pay for her portion, but it's a losing battle; he signs it. I silently watch the entire exchange, flirting included; my purse is already hooked over my shoulder, and my heels itch to get on with it already.

"Have a wonderful night!" Paige says to all of us, but she's only looking at Doc. The bill in one hand, she hands him a slip of paper with the other. "I live around here so if you're ever in the area, I'd love to grab drinks sometime."

Doc takes the paper with practiced ease and slips it into his inner breast pocket. "That sounds lovely, Paige. Thank you for your wonderful service tonight. The food was delicious."

Paige's smile widens, and, with a flutter of her fingers, she waves — to Doc, only — and disappears back inside the restaurant.

Then, we all get up. It's five till eight in the evening, and the sun has set; the fairy lights and naked bulbs hanging from the patio have since been turned on, basking us in an artificial golden glow. We leave the patio and stand by the curb where cabs and SUVs zip by, and Wham!'s "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" plays from an old man's boombox settled into the basket of his bike.

"How are you both getting home?" Doc asks.

"I'm gonna take a cab," Sadie says. "It's late, and I'm exhausted."

"Good idea."

"I'm going to walk," I say.

"Don't you live on the Upper West Side?" he asks.

I give him a "so?" look.

"That's so far!" Sadie says. "We'll walk with you."

And listen to her yammer in my ear all the way home? "No!" I say. "It's fine. Go home." Please.

Sadie's forehead scrunches up. "I don't feel comfortable doing that. We, women, got to stick together."

Do we? "It's New York," I say.

"It is New York," Doc says. "But The Barbie Slayer is still out there, and it's late."

"Oh my god," I say. "Go, please. I'll be fine. I've lived here all my life." I reach into my purse and take out my pepper spray. "See? I'm good."

Sadie and Doc exchange glances. "I'll walk with you," Doc says.

What the fuck is happening? "Doc, that is not—."

"I need to get my steps in anyway," he cuts in. "And the weather is beautiful tonight."

Sadie breathes out a sigh of relief. "Okay, good," she says. "I feel better now. Erin, text me when you're home."

"Fine, fine. Go."

"We'll wait with you for the cab," Doc says to Sadie.

I want to scream. I suppose this will be my one good deed today. 

"Thanks, guys!" Sadie says.

So, we stand and wait, and as we wait, I take out my phone. The brightness of the screen causes me to squint, but my eyes adjust quickly enough, and I notice that I have two new messages: one from Antonia and the other from Mad Cow along with a voicemail. I delete the latter's text and voicemail and move on over to the one message I actually care about: Courtney's. I read through it again before I type out a response of my own, with an overview of my availability. I send it just as a cab pulls up to the curb.

"This is me," Sadie says. She faces us. "Thank you for dinner, Dr. Moretti. I always look forward to these, and I feel like I got to know the two of you even better tonight. Get home safely!" She hugs Doc and waves at me, and then the cab swallows her, and, now, it's my turn.

"If I take a cab, will you leave me alone?" I ask him.

Doc chuckles. "I meant it when I said I needed to get my steps in."

"You're going to have to keep up," I say.

He winks at me. "I've always loved a challenge."

My heels strike a steady rhythm against the concrete sidewalk as we walk in companionable silence. Halfway to my apartment, as we're about to cross the street, Doc juts out his arm. I'm about to scowl at him, but, at that moment, a cyclist barrels through at full speed.

"Use your fucking eyes, asshole!" I yell after him.

Doc cranes his neck to look at me. "You okay?"

"Cyclists should be banned," I say by way of response.

Doc laughs. "Banned? That's a little harsh."

"And slow walkers," I say. "The absolute worst." I start to walk again.

"Now, that," he says, keeping in stride with me, "I agree with."

Fortunately, neither I nor Doc become roadkill the rest of the way, and, eventually, my apartment complex rises into view. I stop several feet away from the entrance, where the doorman awaits. "Well," I say to Doc, "Sadie would be happy to know that the Barbie Slayer wasn't out tonight. Thanks for walking me home. And for saving my life."

"You're welcome," he says. "You still have to be careful, though."

I assume he's talking about The Barbie Slayer and not a dumb cyclist. I wave him away. "I'm not his target audience," I say.

"You never know with these serial killer types," he says. "One day, they could do one thing, and the next, they could do something entirely different."

The breeze has turned cool. It brushes against my skin, raising goosebumps. I live in a residential area of the Upper West Side, with a lot of young families that turn in early, so it can get incredibly quiet at this time of night that, without the occasional blare of a firetruck horn, it can make you feel like you're living in a bubble.

I know the ins and outs of the city, but I'm not naive enough to think that I'd be a match for a skilled killer like The Barbie Slayer. And sure, I don't fit his victim profile, but Doc's right: I do have to be careful. It's one thing to watch the aftermath of a murder on a news screen; it's another to become it. "I'll keep that in mind," I say.

Doc smiles, his brown eyes warm. His tone is sincere when he says, "Have a good night, Erin."

"Good night, Doc."

I turn on my heel and enter my building. I don't look back.