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That is no surprise. It was not meant to be easy. She took many and detailed precautions to make it as hard as possible.

But now there she is. In front of you. In the flesh.

She has not changed, not really. Older, yes, a different haircut and hair colour. Maybe eye colour as well; it is hard to tell at this distance.

Before she finishes her message, a man joins her. He, you assume, was in the class with her; his towel is visible in an open sports bag. Like her, he wears no wedding ring. He smiles and says something to her, standing too close. She backs away slightly; he leans, too close to her.

You tense, your shoulders now tight. You have never liked other people talking to her. It has always made you feel anxious. You know what they want and you know they cannot be allowed to have it.

She is taken. She is yours.

She replies, half-turns away, closing herself to him. The man laughs, then moves off.

Next week, he says. See you next week.

She nods, and heads for the door. You want to lift your cap and call her name, see her smile when she recognizes who it is.

She would be glad, you have no doubts about that. But you cannot. It is not possible.

Not yet.

Many things have to change before you can do that.

But they will. In time, they will. And you can be patient. You have proven that.

For now, though, you need information. An address. Her address. You pull the cap down lower, close the book you have been pretending to read, and walk out of the gym, far enough behind to not be noticed.

Part One

Being Followed

He was definitely following her.

When Mary first saw him he was outside a small store that sold vinyl records, and, as she passed, had caught her eye then tracked her with his gaze, his head dipping slightly as he looked her up and down.

She turned away, quickly, and walked on.

And then he set off after her.

He tracked her – that was what it felt like, as though she was an animal being stalked – the length of the main street. She walked on, her skin prickling and crawling. What was he doing? Just getting a cheap thrill? Enjoying a power trip? Or maybe he was completely innocent, and this was all in her head.

No: this was deliberate. Years of experience of this kind of bullshit told her so.

She felt a mixture of unease, disgust and anger. Who did he think he was? It made her want to turn and scream at him then knee him in the balls and stamp on his stupid face when he hit the ground.

She wouldn’t, though. Instead she’d cross the road for no reason, or go into a shop, or slow down so he walked past her.

She took the last option and slowed her step, waiting for him to pass.

He slowed his, too.

For the first time, she felt the unease, disgust and anger swell into something else. Something closer to fear. Not that she thought she was unsafe, not in the early afternoon of a summer’s day in the small town of Barrow, Maine.

If you were safe anywhere, you were safe here.

If. You were never totally safe, not really. There were school shooters and desperate addicts and other bad actors everywhere. And wasn’t this how it would begin? With some creep following her, waiting until she was alone and vulnerable?

It reminded her of a time in Portland fifteen years ago – she knew when it was because her son, Otis, had only been a baby, strapped into his car seat – when a black sedan, a Mercedes or BMW or some other expensive brand, had pulled up beside her at a set of traffic lights, and the man behind the wheel had rolled down his window and gestured at her to do the same.