“And say what? That there was a strange man standing on the sidewalk? The road is public property.”

“True, but I’m sure the guard would want to know if one of their clients is being stalked. At least give him a description of the creep.”

I shiver, the reality of this conversation inching up the back of my neck. Maybe I’m wrong. Atlanta is a big city that can feel like a really small town. I run into people I know everywhere. Maybe this is all some strange coincidence.

I rewind back to the first time I noticed him, a few days ago through the plate-glass window at Kale Me Crazy. There I was, seated alone at the bar with my phone and a smoothie I didn’t want, killing an empty hour between playdates and pickup times by scrolling through Pinterest. I was feeling sad and nostalgic for the offices and boutiques I used to design, back before I met Cam. This was before his name became synonymous with Atlanta’s high-end dining, before I came up with the sleek stone and metal look that would become a recognizable part of his brand, before I pushed out two babies in three years and closed up shop. But that day, I looked up and he was there, squinting into the sunshine and watching me.

A weirdo, but a random one, I assumed—until I spotted him later at the dry cleaner, at the deli across from my yoga studio, at the Starbucks and the canned goods aisle of the grocery store.

And now here he is again, today.

At my child’s music school.

My skin prickles with alarm.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, but next time you see this guy, point your phone at his face and tell him you’re streaming live to Twitter. If it doesn’t scare him off, you’ll at least have a visual to show the guard.”

His voice gets sucked up into more clanging, followed by a heavy crash and multiple voices, all of them shouting. I realize it’s been like this since the start, his voice pushing through loud and chaotic background noise.

“Babe, why does it sound like you’re at fight club?”

“I’m at the shop on Bolling Way. There was a fire.”

My stomach drops at his words. Bolling Way is Cam’s signature restaurant, a booming scene surrounded by Buckhead’s finest stores, a place that’s packed from noon until midnight.

“How bad was it?”

“On a scale of one to ten? Four hundred and fifty-seven.” He sighs, and it occurs to me that the concern I thought I heard in his voice wasn’t for me and the kids, but disaster at his most profitable restaurant. A torched Buckhead kitchen means a big, giant hole in our income. “I’m here with Flavio. We’re talking through our options.”