“So where are you from?” he asks. “I was talking to a couple just this morning from Tokyo, and our guide said tourism from Japan is booming.”
I fix him with a steady, deadpan look. Then I return to my article. It’s on the kind of junk-news site that posts pieces by wannabe journalists. Under a dateline nine months old, the writer claimed to have found Bastion’s apartment building, which she’d been staking out in hopes of spotting him. Not sure what she hoped to “spot” when no photos of him were available online. Did she think she’d see his crimes writ on his—
“Surgeon or musician?” the man asks.
I look over at him.
“With those fingers, you must be a surgeon or a musician.” He smiles as he leans closer. “Although, with that face, I’d say model. You must have done some, right? Former model turned cardiac surgeon?”
I stare at him. He’s grinning like he’s just paid me the biggest compliment ever, and surely I’ll rise to the bait, blushing and stammering, my ego bolstered.
I’m tempted to say I’m a cop, but he might like that. Somehow, I seem to attract the guys who do.
“I’m a travel writer,” I say. “And I’m on a deadline. I’m sure your kids are waiting for those pictures.”
Kiss-offs don’t come much clearer than that.
“Travel writer?” He inches his chair closer still. “Got any hot local tips?”
“The coffee shop down the road is less crowded.”
He only laughs. When he opens his mouth again, I snap my laptop shut and stand.
“And if you’ll excuse me, I should probably move to that other shop,” I say. “My husband’s late, and he may have gone to the wrong one.”
I check my watch as I put my laptop away. It’s been two hours. Dalton should be here any second. I’ll find a place nearby to hang out and watch for the truck.
The encounter has annoyed me more than I’d like to admit. On the force, when I dared complain about being hit on, my male coworkers would either tell me I should be flattered or scold me for “misinterpreting,” as if I were so conceited that I presumed any guy who spoke to me was flirting. At first, it pissed me off, and I’d try to explain that I knew the difference between conversation and flirtation and harassment. But that conversation rarely goes well. So I’ve learned to deal with it, as every woman does, and it rarely bothers me. Today it does because it drove me from my seat and from my work. So I’m fuming, walking fast, trying to regain my focus.
I stride along one sidewalk and start crossing the road. When I check for traffic, I spot the guy I just escaped, hands in his pockets as he gazes about, his face turned the other way.
Is he following me?
Again, this is always a dilemma. Just because he’s left the coffee shop does not mean he’s coming after me. However, he’s also discarded his unfinished coffee and muffin, which suggests that he didn’t just happen to be done and depart at the same time. Still, if I jump to the conclusion I’m being followed, a little voice tells me I’m overreacting.
Don’t be silly. He just finished up quickly and decided to leave.
And if I listen to that voice, I hear others—all the voices of all the women I met as a cop in special victims, the ones who admitted they’d had a “bad feeling,” and they ignored it because they didn’t want to seem paranoid.
That little voice in our heads does this weird thing, conflating self-preservation with self-impo
rtance. We express concern over walking around alone at night, and we imagine people scoffing, telling us we aren’t “all that.” As a cop, I know assault isn’t about physical attractiveness. Yet that voice still screams, admonishing us for our egotism.
I’d said I was going to a coffee shop down the road. I can’t pretend to do that, because there isn’t one. There is a Greek restaurant, and I pop into it and buy a can of pop, which I tuck into my bag. I’m about to ask if there’s a washroom—and hopefully a back exit near it—when the front door opens and my pursuer walks in. Seeing me, he pulls up short.
“Hey, small world. I was looking for that other coffee shop you mentioned. I was going to ask in here.”
“I think it’s closed down,” I say, “but I’m sure someone here can help you.”
I brush past and out the door. I’m about to walk around the side of the small building. Then I stop. I don’t want to ditch this guy just yet. There’s still that whispering voice of doubt claiming it’s a misunderstanding. More important, though, is the louder one that suggests it’s odd for a casual admirer to be so ardent in his pursuit, especially when he’s gotten no encouragement in return.
He did admire my laptop. Am I looking at a very different kind of predator here? One who sees a petite woman alone with an expensive piece of tech?
I have no idea, but the cop in me wants to solve this mystery. So I hit the sidewalk, heading the other way at a leisurely pace. The restaurant door creaks open and bangs shut behind me. Footsteps clomp on the wooden sidewalk. I make a left at the corner and then cross diagonally at the next intersection. On one corner is the inn where Dalton and I stay when we make a supply run.
I walk inside. As soon as I duck into the main room, one of the staff appears. His smile of recognition hitches, and he opens his mouth, probably to tell me, with regret, that they’re full, but I reassure him that I’m not here for a room.
“I have a favor to ask,” I say. “And it’s a little strange.”