Her stomach did little flip-flops as she replayed the encounter. He’d been in the restaurant that whole time, probably watching her eat, and she hadn’t even noticed. Where had he been sitting? She thought back, trying to remember if she’d read anything sensitive on her phone while she’d scarfed her meal. No, she’d gone through some emails and played a game of sudoku.

Leigh gripped the wheel as she drove through downtown, navigating the wet streets toward the Lamar Bridge. The rain had let up, but it was still misty out, and a layer of fog hung over the lake.

She felt shocked and shaky. The dumplings were like stones in her stomach. She wove through several neighborhoods, checking her mirrors compulsively as she took a circuitous route home. But when she reached her street she kept going. She couldn’t pull into her driveway yet. She’d gone to great lengths to keep her address unlisted. She couldn’t simply let someone follow her home.

Leigh checked the mirrors again. Was she being paranoid? Maybe. But she didn’t want to risk it. Being careful was what gave her peace of mind. She wended through neighborhood after neighborhood until she reached South Congress and hung a left.

She took a deep breath as she drove north on the brightly lit avenue. Tourists and partygoers lined the sidewalks, undeterred by the damp weather as they hopped from bar to bar. Leigh passed her favorite Mexican dive, her favorite ice cream shop, a boot store. She passed the Continental Club, where a line of people stretched around the corner waiting for a chance to see whatever up-and-coming band was listed on the marquee. She passed a trendy movie saloon and several swanky loft apartment buildings before hanging a right onto a narrow side street. After passing a noodle shop and a karate studio, she neared a two-story brick walkup.

Leigh pulled up to a meter and parked. She cut the engine and stared at the building.

It definitely didn’t look like much. The 1970s architecture wasn’t pronounced enough to even be considered retro, really. The place merely looked old, with sagging gutters and ugly yellow light fixtures. But Brandon was right—you couldn’t beat the location.

Leigh studied the building, counting the windows until she located—she guessed—number 208, Brandon’s unit.

She had looked him up, and she didn’t feel a shred of guilt over it. It was what she did now—she vetted people.

She knew what he paid in rent. She knew his salary range. She knew that he’d been married over a decade ago, and that it barely lasted a year. She knew he had a stellar credit rating and that he’d been the captain of his football team at Travis High School in San Antonio. She knew all this and more from just a couple hours online and a few handy tricks of the trade.