“Of course,” I say, because the alternative is to swear and explain the word to a kid in a yellow hat watching the tree. “To you, control is safety. You put walls around people and call it mercy.”
“I call it what works,” he says. “If I find a better word later, I’ll use it.”
I glare at him. He meets it. I’m not sure which of us is more stubborn.
The door bangs open behind us. Mrs. Doyle sticks her head out, cheeks pink, hair escaping her scarf. “Your mother says the brownies are getting cold,” she reports. Then she peers between us like a woman who loves a good mid-morning cliffhanger. “Do I need to play referee?”
“We’re finished,” I tell her.
“We aren’t,” he says at the same moment.
Mrs. Doyle grins the way a woman does when her day just got spicier. “You two can table this,” she decrees. “We need another spool of fishing line, and the ladder’s sulking.”
She goes in, humming a carol. The door thuds.
“We’re coming,” I say after her, though my legs want to stay out here where the cold keeps our argument brittle and sharp. I almost laugh, because that’s what we do, circle the same ground we’ve been walking since we met.
Then a sound cuts through the air. A tire slides on slush. The click of metal as a car door unlatches. He turns first. I follow his line, and the prickle on my skin breaks into full alert. He’s right. The storm isn’t coming—it’s here.
She stands across the road like a picture someone forgot to frame. No coat now, just a quilted green jacket. Nothing out of place. Only I’ve seen her before, first inside my bakery and later, strolling past it. Her hair’s tucked under a gray cap. Sunglasses almost hide her face. Hands in her pockets, mouth set, she doesn’t even glance at the flyer on the board that promises caroling on Thursday.
She watches us—neither curious nor kind.
Bold.
22
MATTEO
She moves first. The silver Accord’s lights blink once as she slides behind the wheel and pulls from the curb with the precision of someone who gets to choose her exit. I give her the count of two, cross to my car, and roll into traffic without looking back at Lila.
I keep a car between us when I can. She drives like the examiner failed her once for hesitating, full stops where she must, soft coasts where she can, turn signals on late enough to be polite and early enough to be nothing. She checks mirrors on a rhythm. I use glass to stay unseen. Diner window, barber’s pane, pharmacy case—in each reflection, her line holds steady. In each reflection, I am only another set of headlights.
She moves like she’s testing me—slow past the feed store, quicker by the florist, then gone behind a passing truck. I wait, count three, and catch her tail again by the post office. She turns onto Mill, takes it fast, trusting the turns to lose me. I let her run. The road dips toward the bridge. The planks drum under her tires. Spray bursts white against the guardrail. She crosses, then hooks left into the warehouse strip. Two turns later, she hits adead end in an alley by a loading dock, brake lights cutting once before they fade. I roll in slowly.
I kill my lights, ease in, and slow to a crawl. No cameras here. No porch lights that matter. The buildings lean like old men who have learned to mind their own business. The lane kinks left into a bottleneck where a chain-link gate leans on one hinge. She stops at the bottleneck. Bad place for a stall. Worse place for a surprise. She knows it. I park across the angle of her bumper and leave the engine on, then step out and close my door with deliberate care that says I am giving her time to think.
She is already out of the car. The sunglasses are gone. Her impossibly clear eyes take me in, reflecting everything I give them and nothing of their own. She leans the small of her back to the brick, one foot flat, one toe set on the edge, poised like a dancer trained for the killing step. She smiles because that looks good on a mask. It reads as brave when she does not let it slip.
I stop at the distance where men decide how loud they want to breathe. I let silence hang between us until her eyes flicker and she chirps.
“You follow well,” she says, bright and clipped. American on the surface, something older on the underside. “Neighbors will talk if you park like that.”
“Here, they talk about the day first,” I answer, letting my eyes hover on the locality. “And then the names.”
Her chin tips a half degree, almost a salute. Her lips threaten a smile, a neat row of teeth just showing. “You want my name. You won’t get it.”
“I want your purpose,” I correct her. “The name can wait.”
She laughs once, the sound low in her throat. “You know it. I’ve seen you all day. Repairing, measuring. Always with your tools. You put eyes in corners for safety. Sweet.” She shifts her stance, dipping a little lower. “But you know what? You’re late. When and where—it’s already on a calendar that isn’t in your pocket.” Her voice trails off into a singsong lilt.
She lifts a hand to the scar near her ear, like a woman unsure if she’s played her trump card well. It is a tell. She wants a cue. I give her one she did not ask for.
“You rent cash, upstairs at The Lantern, second door on the right. Your shoe stays at the jamb when you want to hear without being surprised. You take your coffee without drinking it. Your left shoulder rides high from the weight of a bag you no longer carry. You call at odd hours and mistake silence for control. You said my name once in that room. You said the boy’s schedule ten times.”
I stare at her. Checkmate.
The smile folds, then returns as if pulled by wire. “I report what I see. So do you.” She turns a lock of hair between her fingers. “We’re the same kind of worker.”
