“This morning you answered all my questions correctly. Naturally, zombies don’t exist. And vampires and werewolves are over-romanticized stories based loosely on the lives of extremely rare human anomalies.”
He spoke with assurance, as though he had firsthand knowledge of these things. Of course, his statements dovetailed with my beliefs, so I forgave him. I practiced swimming underwater until my eyes bugged out and I shot to the surface for air. It was sort of hard to do out of the water. He inhaled deeply at the same instant.
“I’ve been searching for a while to find a compatible individual to help me write my book. The last person I asked about immortality gushed on and on about a character in that popular vampire series. Your answer, however, caught me by surprise. You know how to think—a trait many people regretfully lack these days. I’ll supply the information, and you’ll arrange it into a logical, believable narrative.”
Although that was quite a compliment, I refrained from accepting the offer on the spot.
“If you’ve finished, I have a few questions for you,” I said briskly. “My boss, JJ, has the idea you’re filthy rich and accustomed to getting what you want with no questions asked. I can’t figure out how he arrived at that conclusion since there’s no public data about you. He said you told him, and he took you at your word, which is out of character for him.”
Mr. Bonfiglio flashed me a sly smile. “I’m known for my persuasiveness. You didn’t ask my age. Would you like to know it?”
I shot him a look that could have meant “Go ahead and tell me” or “Don’t bother.”
“I don’t know my actual age,” he confessed. “I have no memory of my childhood, parents, or growing to adulthood. When I designed the Sphinx, I’d existed for untold centuries.”
I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms.
I don’t know where I came from. I know I’m human; I’ve had my DNA tested. It’s normal: twenty-three pairs of chromosomes on a double helix.”
My fingers itched for my computer. There had to be a name for this man’s delusion. I leaned toward him and uncross my arms. “Okay, I’ll play along. Perhaps you should look into past-life regression.”
“Naturally you don’t believe me.” He drew in a deep breath.
While I rehearsed what I’d say to JJ at our next meeting, I mentally held my nose and sat cross-legged at the bottom of the pool. As a child, I’d often done this in reality when my dad wanted me to practice the piano. I could hold my breath long enough to make my parents panic. My brother and I had come along later in their lives and they tended to be over protective. I let my hand drift away from my face. It took all my concentration to stay underwater instead of relaxing into a dead man’s float.
Just then, Mr. Bonfiglio slumped over and slid to the floor.
Abandoning my underwater fantasy, I jumped to his side and shook his shoulder. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t hit his head or had a seizure. He had turned boneless (figuratively, of course) and oozed out of his chair. Not seeing a telephone in the room, I snatched my purse from an end table and dug for my cell phone. I was punching 911 when he grabbed it from me. I let out a startled yelp.
“That won’t be necessary, Donna. I’m fine now.”
He took several deep breaths; I wondered if he was hyperventilating. He repeated his assurances, even though he remained on the floor. Although he exhibited no telltale signs of sickness, I didn’t have any experience with people fainting. I continued to squat at his side but let him hold my phone. I was too suspicious of him to reach for it, which would put me in a position where he could grab my hands and pull me to the floor. Instead I slid my hand into my pocket and thumbed the lid off the tube of pepper spray. The swimmer transformed into a skunk with its tail raised.
“Do you have a medical condition that makes you lose consciousness, Mr. Bonfiglio?”
He shook his head and gave me yet another of those long, searching stares. Why do I keep finding myself in situations where this man can look up my skirt? I tried to point my knees away from his face without falling over.
“Bella Donna, if you insist on performing all these mental swimming exercises, could you please refrain from the ones where you hold your breath? I simply can’t breathe when you do that.”
I lost my balance and fell on my butt. I imagined myself riding on a porpoise.
Mr. Bonfiglio rewarded me with an awed expression.
“How are you doing this?” Although I didn’t believe in mind readers, this man might have been able to persuade me.
“Normally I’m empathetic to the emotions of others. Sometimes I can even see their aura if it’s strong. With you, however, I hear and see your internal conversations. Do you know your muscles actually move when you go ‘swimming’?”
“No,” I whispered, stunned.
“How many years have you been doing this?” he asked.
After rising gracefully to his feet, he helped me up from the spotless floor and we retook our seats.
“For a while.” A horrifying thought occurred to me. “When you made that face when I first arrived…”
“You were thinking about bikini waxes,” he crowed. 
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