But R.S. was for later. Because I knew in my gut the man I’d beaten up on the hill wasn’t whoever was watching our house—and I had a hunch about that.

I got back in the car and drove to my local convenience store, just outside of our subdivision, at the edge of a highway. It doubled as a gas station. The usual. Windows plastered with advertisements for all the things we were supposed to want that were killing us. Nothing resembling a black SUV in the parking lot.

Inside, the clang of bells announced me. The place wasn’t a favorite haunt—the kind of store you went to only if you woke up in the morning and realized you’d forgotten to buy eggs or coffee at the supermarket. It appealed more to motorists making a pit stop. It always smelled faintly of pot.

Stopped short a moment realizing there would be surveillance cameras.

But the woman behind the counter had already seen me. A weary, thirty-something Black woman, dressed in a business suit, which made me think a manager was subbing for a sick employee. A surgical mask hung slack around her neck, like the chain had issued them but hadn’t told employees it was mandatory yet. Like most places.

“Hi, there!” she said, a kind of vacant hope in her voice. Up close, the caverns of her eyes made it clear she didn’t get much sleep. There was a tear in the sleeve of her blouse. Her pink nail polish had chipped. Details were escaping her. I sympathized.

“This may seem like a strange question,” I said, braced for resistance.

“I don’t think it will be,” she said, smiling. Practically beaming.

What did that mean? What did the smile mean?

I decided to ignore it.

“Have you had someone come in recently who buys a lot of different types of cigarettes?”

At least ten kinds protruded from the shelf behind her head.

“I did!” she said, with such enthusiasm it wrong-footed me again.

“Did he give you a name?”

“Nope.” Again, so cheery, against the grain, that I wanted to coach her. Don’t bother with this one. Preserve your energy.

“What did he look like?”

“Normal, except for the wig. White, a little tall. I didn’t really notice because of the wig.” Said puzzled, like she’d just realized she couldn’t provide a description.

“Wig?”

“He had on a hoodie, and under the hoodie he was wearing a wig. Like a clown.”

“Clown?”

“You know—a cotton-candy-colored wig. Like for a party.”

I felt the beginnings of a stomachache. That detail got to me. It suggested someone with a sick sense of humor. It made me think of pranks, of derangement.

“Was he young, old, or…”

“Not really anything. I mean, I couldn’t tell. But not in his twenties.”

“What do you mean ‘Not really anything’?”