The waitress’s sudden intervention now made sense. She must have recognized him and orchestrated the spill as a means to warn me. But why take such a risk? I glanced around the restaurant, half-expecting Michael, or rather David, to reappear and confront me with some clever excuse or dangerous threat. But he was still in the restroom.

I needed to act quickly. My first instinct was to leave, to put as much distance between myself and this potential danger as possible. But another part of me, a fiercer, more determined side, insisted that I needed to confront him, to see if he would admit to his true identity and intentions.