The streets still smelled like rain. Puddles caught the weak halos of streetlamps, and each step I took slid soft and useless on the slick pavement. Hoodie hood up, head down, I walked fast enough that my breath came in short, hot bursts. Every noise was too loud, a car door, a distant dog, the slap of my own shoes, every sound a reminder that I was out where people could see me.
I wasn’t a spy. I wasn’t trained in tailing or surveillance. I was a woman who had stitched a man’s side with trembling fingers two nights ago, whose hands still smelled faintly of iron and detergent. I loved him. That fact made me reckless.
I’d spent the small hours replaying details.
The anonymous message, the figure outside the café, the black van that had idled a little too long under my building last week.
