When Conner finally left for his five-day FBI training in Virginia, Zoe grabbed her binoculars and sat in her favorite surveillance spot; a navy-blue upholstered chair next to the picture window in the living room. Taking her good binoculars out of their case, she was about to start her long-range viewing when a FaceTime call from Sean interrupted her.

The two worked together at Villa d’Luna where Sean did a little bit of everything and the restaurant’s owner, Miranda, was totally dependent upon him. Part-time sommelier, purchasing agent, bookkeeper, and wait-staff psychologist, Sean even subbed in if one of the wait staff called out sick. He and Zoe had met three years earlier when she started on the night shift. From their first shift together, they had been hopelessly devoted to each other. When not working, they talked, texted or FaceTimed dozens of times each day.

“Hey,” said Sean as his freckled face surrounded by red hair and a closely-cropped ginger beard, popped up on her iPhone, “just finished watching The Golden Girls, the one where they get arrested for prostitution.”

“I love that episode,” said Zoe, still holding the binoculars up to her eyes, homing in on a family of three walking on the street below.

“Oh. My. God,” screamed Sean, looking down at the palm of his hand.

“What?” said Zoe, glancing over at her phone screen.

“There’s a brown spot on my palm. I’ve never seen it before. Do you think it’s a melanoma?”

“Show me.”

Sean held the palm of his hand up to the screen. Zoe picked up her phone and zoomed in so she could better look at Sean’s spot. “How long have you had this?”

“I don’t know, I just noticed it,” he said, touching it. “What if it has already spread?”

“You’re jumping to conclusions.”

“Said the queen of conclusion-jumping.”

“Don’t pick at it,” said Zoe, watching him scratch.

“Oh my God, do you think I’ll need chemo?” said Sean as he licked his finger and vigorously rubbed the lethal spot on his hand. A moment later he let out a yelp of relief. “It came off,” he said as he put his finger in his mouth. “Soy sauce. I had sushi last night.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Thank you. Want to do something tonight since Conner’s out of town?” said Sean. “We could spy on that florist on 99th Street. Or what about the guy who owns the dry cleaners on 101st? You always say his Greek accent sounds fake and that he’s weird.”

“He strokes the clothes and rubs his fingers over the fabric when I drop stuff off,” said Zoe, narrowing her eyes. “He’s totally creepy. I could see him being someone who exposes himself. Not only that, when I went to the post office last week, I could swear his photo was in the ‘most wanted’ pictures posted on the wall.”