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How could he understand? My situation was so specialized, so secret, so peculiar. How could this tall, dark man in black leather, strangely ominous, strangely compassionate, understand what it was like to have innocent blood on my hands, unknowing? He did understand. Sometimes he seemed to be inside my brain. Sometimes he seemed to be understanding me through his own situation, whatever that was. What had he been through to teach him the kinds of things I thought only I knew? I wanted to trust him. I couldn’t. Too much was at stake. But his eyes haunted me. They knew.