While Tess browses with the focus of a surgeon, I trail behind, touching fabrics, letting my mind wander. It wanders to the wrong place.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"Always."
"If you met someone and everything about them seemed—right. Polished. Like they never made a wrong move. Would that bother you?"
Tess looks up from a rack of skirts. "Depends. Are we talking about a man?"
"We're talking hypothetically."
"We're never talking hypothetically. Who is he?"
I sigh. I should know better than to try indirection with Tess. "There's a man in the neighborhood. I've run into him a few times. He introduced himself at the hardware store a couple weeks ago."
"Name?"
"Damien Cross."
"What's he like?"
"That's the thing. I don't know. He's—polite. Friendly. Well-dressed. Says the right things. But there's something about him that doesn't sit right. Like the whole thing is a performance."
"What kind of performance?"
"The kind where someone is being very careful about what you see. Too careful."
Tess considers this, a blouse dangling from her hand. "Or maybe he's just socially awkward and overcompensating. Some people are like that. They overthink their interactions because they're anxious, not because they're hiding something."
"This man is not anxious."
"You've talked to him once, Jess."
"I know. But I've seen him—at the bodega, on the street. He moves like someone who's aware of every inch of space around him. It's not anxiety. It's something else."
"Like what?"
I don't have the word. Or I do, and it sounds paranoid: surveillance. He moves like a man who's trained in the art of watching and not being watched. Every position, every angle, every line of sight—it's all calculated.
But I can't say that to Tess without sounding insane, so I say, "I don't know. It's just a feeling."
"Okay." Tess puts the blouse back and gives me her full attention. "Here's what I think. I think your radar is really good. It's kept you safe your whole life, and I'd never tell you to ignore it. But sometimes the radar pings on things that aren't threats. Sometimes a man in a nice coat is just a man in a nice coat."
"And sometimes he isn't."
"And sometimes he isn't," she agrees. "But you don't know which one this is yet. So maybe—just keep your eyes open. Don't decide he's dangerous before you have a reason. And don't decide he's safe either. Just watch."
"I'm good at watching."
"I know you are." She smiles and goes back to the rack. "What does he look like?"
"Why does that matter?"
"It doesn't. I'm just nosy."
"Tall. Dark hair. British accent. Expensive coat."
Tess pauses. "British."
