My sister finally agreed to hear my story. She was interested, but she did not seem as surprised as I was when I told her about the apartment. "There is not much to say about all this.

- Are you kidding? My neighbor – if I can still call her that – is renting a place she isn't living in and set up a hall in order for people not to notice if she is to answer the door, she comes to me accusing a guy that seemed afraid for his life even though he was kind of a tough bloke, and there is not much to say? Are you serious?

- Yes I am, that is probably just another black widow that kills men because of some trauma she had as a child."

I almost forgot how cold she could be! No wonder she had succeeded in becoming a journalist, she just took everything objectively, allowing her to display information she knew would be hurtful to some people. It was not in a search for truth or to flatter her ego, she just did her job. Maybe she would have had a better income as a contract killer? Ha!

"So you are going for the serial killer theory, just like that.

- Why shouldn't I?

- Well, she came to me for help!

- Yeah, like that should indicate anything good about her mental health. You should know that psychopaths are the best liars there are. They manipulate people with such ease that it seems almost as a gift given to them in order to kill even more people.

- A spy would have to possess the same kind of traits.

- Yes, but spies don't assassinate unknown folks without a good reason to do so, even though they do use dumb people such as yourself as assets."

I stood still for a few seconds, my mouth still open due to the sucker punch.

"Come on! You come to me with the story of a random chick that plays you and vanishes, and I am not supposed to make fun of your lack of competence.

- You could be kinder.

- I could, but I should not. You have to stop living in that little fantasy world of yours, there are things more important than improbable stories."

I sighted, finished my beef and my milk and got the piece of glass I had found earlier out of my pocket.

"Do you know what that could be?"

Lucy used her napkin in order to take the item without risking cutting herself. She moved it a little, in order to apprehend the shape of it – which was circular – and then looked at it closer as if she was trying to make something of the little black inscription.

"That's a syringe," she finally concluded.

"Ah, I knew it!

- That does not mean that she is a spy. But that seems to indicate that the man did not lie to you, she probably drugged him.

- Yes but then if he was drugged, how did she get him into her apartment? She is far too skinny to carry him.

- As I already told you, she is probably some kind of homicidal seductress. She found him in a bar, slept with him and decided to kill him in the morning.

- Well, that's a story, but there was no bed there. He would have known something was off as soon as he would have come in.

- What if she drugged him as soon as he entered?

- Maybe…"

There was a short silence after which Lucy shook her head. "I don't even know why I am discussing this with you! Why aren't you buying off a copper to go talk to that guy in jail?

- Well, for one thing he is not in jail.

- What, but you told me that he attacked her!

- She never went to the precinct.

- And you don't have his name?

- No, nothing." She looked at me as if I was idiotic. I frowned and she seemed to insist that I was suppose to make a connection when suddenly it appeared to me. "She is going to try to finish him!

- And I bet that she already knows where he lives.

- Crap!"

I stood up and started to walk in a hurry, she would pay for the meal anyway. I had something more important to do: find a strategy before I reached the car.