She agrees to meet me for lunch, and by the time I get to the pizza place on the downtown square, she’s already there.

“Hey,” I say as I slide into a booth opposite her. She looks at me with concern, her eyes darting around nervously. I’m confused. “If you don’t want pizza, we can go someplace else.”

“No,” she says, forcing a smile. “I’m just having kind of a weird day.”

“How so?”

“Is there a woman with red hair in a black suit behind me?” Sarah whispers.

I scrunch my eyebrows together in confusion and then look over her shoulder. Sure enough, there’s a red-haired woman in dark clothes drinking a coffee alone and reading from an electronic tablet a few tables behind us.

“Yeah, why?”

Sarah exhales a long, steady breath, shaking her head.

“We went out for dinner last night, and she was there. This morning I went on a run, and she drove by me four times. Now she’s here.”

“Shit,” I murmur. “Well, there goes what I had to tell you.”

“What do you mean?” She sits up straighter, concerned.

“Just that my dad mentioned the FBI knew you were connected to John in some way. I didn’t figure they’d have you followed.”

“Crap,” she says.

We sit without saying anything for a few moments, trying to figure out what to do next. The silence is finally broken when the waitress comes by to take our order.

“Hey, Mark,” she says sweetly. I’ve eaten enough pizza here in my lifetime to receive hall of fame status. She knows me well. “What can I get you?”

“Hey. Uh, we’ll take a medium half meaty, half veggie.” Mine and Sarah’s old standby order. “I’ll have a soda.”

The waitress smiles at me and then turns to Sarah. She sneers in a way that makes it obvious she wants Sarah to notice.

“You want anything?” she asks, an edge to her voice.

This is Sarah’s life now—the mad bomber’s girlfriend. I want to cause a scene but swallow down the urge because apparently we’re already getting enough attention as it is. Sarah turns her head and locks eyes with the waitress, giving her a look that I recognize. I’ve been on the receiving end of it too many times—the kind of glare that makes you think your face is going to melt off.

“Diet soda, ma’am,” she says, emphasizing the last word.

The waitress rolls her eyes and walks away. Sarah just sighs.

“Jeez, some people,” I say.

“It’s not some people. It’s all people. I mean, half the town thinks I’m some kind of terrorist floozy. Even if they don’t say it, you should see the looks I get. And that’s not counting the people who are following me.”