Your favorite food?No. That would be too shallow.
How did your wife die?That would be too dark, so I pick the middle option.
“What does your company do?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. We pass under an overpass, and the light dims and returns.
“Mostly imports, but we also have some areas in the real estate sector. What are you doing in a shopping center, anyway?”
My body tenses for a moment, but I recover quickly.
“Shopping?” I should have thought of a better answer, but that’s all that comes to mind while I can smell him all over the car.
His jaw shifts, barely.
“I could use some new clothes,” I continue, which isn’t exactly a lie. “I didn’t bring much when I moved in.”
“I noticed.”
“The cream one is versatile.”
“It is.”
I go back to looking out the window.
Woodfield Commons on a Sunday morning is exactly what I need it to be: loud and crowded. The space is alive with the hum of holiday energy, right on schedule for the middle of December. Decorations are up, and some much-needed cheer is here.
I check my phone as we walk in. Eight fifty-four.
The meeting is at ten. I have one hour and six minutes tofigure out how to be in two places at once, or to be in one place and have Rolan be somewhere else.
The security I can account for: Dmitri is behind us somewhere, and a second man, youngish, short hair, one of the new guards, moves parallel to us a half-step further back. I caught his name once from Alexei. Savin, I think.
What I cannot account for is Rolan, who walks beside me through the mall atrium with his hands in his jacket pockets, and who has shown no indication that he’s about to leave my side for any reason whatsoever.
I angle toward the first clothing store I see — ZARA.
I go in.
Rolan follows.
Okay, I think.Okay, this is fine, you know what men are like in women’s clothing stores. Ten minutes, and he’ll be checking his phone near the door. Fifteen, and he’ll be communicating through thinly veiled sighing. Twenty, and he’ll invent a reason to wait outside.
Except Rolan doesn’t sigh and doesn’t check his phone. He stands slightly to my left and watches me.
A woman nearby glances at him and then away quickly.
I pull a dark green sweater from a rack and hold it up.
“This is nice,” I say, mostly to myself.
“If you say so,” he says.
I glance at him. He’s looking at the sweater with the same expression he uses for everything — neutral, attentive, present.
I add it to the basket and slip in three other things I actually want.
Twenty-five minutes later, we exit with a bag I didn’t plan on, and Rolan is still beside me, showing no signs of inconvenience.
