I had expected her to tell me about the Watchers, but she deflected the topic again and insisted I tell her how and when all this started for me. She made few comments and asked no questions, but she did find it interesting that I'd managed to suppress it for so many years; however, she didn't offer any insight as to how or why. “How come when we kill them and the victims get better, no one seems to remember they were ill in the first place?” I asked. “You know when a friend or acquaintance shows up with a new haircut and you're not sure why, but you know there's something different about them, you just can't pinpoint it?” I nodded and she continued. “It's kind of like that. Their friends and family know something's different, but they don't know what. They just know the person is better for it.” We'd reached Fillmore Street and turned north. She stopped in front of a bar with outdoor seating; it was only mid-afternoon and most of the tables were empty. Billy went to the one at the end and sat down.
