Page 35 of His Wall

She stopped.

She turned her head. Her gray eyes came up to mine, and she looked at me.

I knew it was the wrong thing to have said.

I had been watching her. I knew the rhythm of her breathing. I had no business knowing that.

"Walk with me, Claire."

She walked ahead and I followed.

The path curved toward the water. A jogger came past with a yellow lab. Two kids on scooters. The bench at the bend where an older couple was sharing a paper bag of something — bagels, by the smell of it, sesame.

"What do you listen to," I said. "When you run."

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I like hearing my own breathing."

"That is the most Claire Kent answer that has ever been said."

"What would you listen to?"

"Jazz."

"That's not jazz. What you play in your office is a cat being electrocuted."

I laughed.

A real one. Out loud. The lab's owner glanced at me on the way past.

Claire looked at me sideways. Something moved in her face — softer, a fraction of an inch, the wall slipping. She did not look away. I caught the look and did not push at it and she let it stay.

We walked another twenty yards.

"So the man on the sidewalk."

She did not break stride.

"What about him?"

"Not a boyfriend."

"No."

"Old friend? Brother? Particularly handsome Uber driver?"

She shook her head.

"Someone from a long time ago."

I let that sit.

"He looked at you like it wasn't that long ago for him."

She did not answer.