Clove picked up the printout. Exhaled, inhaled. Was he more nervous now? Put the photo down.

“Took a moment. She wore dark sunglasses a lot and had blond hair, but I think that’s the same face.”

Silvina, disguised. From me or whoever pursued her? Or just hiding from the light?

“How often did you see her?”

Again, Clove paused, reset.

“I can’t say when she stopped coming in, or if she has. I just know I haven’t seen her in a while. I couldn’t say how long, though. A lot of people come in here.”

“Was she ever in here when I was in here? If you remember.”

“She always came in the morning. Early. So, yeah, she would’ve been in here.”

Was it excitement or fear that spiked the adrenaline?

“Did she have a favorite spot to sit?” I asked.

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe.”

“Are you saying she took her order to go instead?” Old trick with clients: put words in their mouths they had to react to, dislodging information.

“No.”

“Then where did she sit?”

He pointed over my shoulder.

I swiveled to look, turned back to Clove. “That table there? By the window?”

Clove nodded.

I felt for a moment like I was back in the river by the farm, drowning. That I would be stuck in that moment forever.

But I managed to ask, even though I couldn’t breathe, “How long has she been coming in?”

“Off and on? A year, maybe.”

I was sitting in my own favorite spot.

According to Clove, for a year before her death, Silvina had come to the same coffee shop and sat in the best place to watch me. Without me noticing. Never striking up even a casual conversation.

“Did you peek?” I asked him. Random interest. Maybe I wanted to punish him. I was leaning in, invading his space.

“What?” Clove’s expression suggested pornographic thoughts.

“Did you peek? At what was in the envelope?”

“No. I wouldn’t do that.” As if I’d accused him of a serious crime.

“Not even a little, tiny peek?” Tempted to share the message, ask his opinion. But that would be further contamination. What if men in a black SUV pulled up later and asked him questions from this same seat?

Clove shook his head. Grim-faced. Hands clenched in his lap.

Time to put him out of my misery. On a hunch, I took out the photo of Langer Allie had given me.

“One last question. Do you recognize this man?”

“No, never seen him.” No hesitation.

“Fair enough.” Skeptical.

But my sin was worse than disbelief.

My sin was the thought that Langer would’ve been in disguise, too smart for the man in front of me to notice.

[25]