After another minute, she asked, “Do you think they were watching me?”
“Probably.”
Her head snapped in my direction. “Damn. You could’ve lied.”
“You want me to?”
“No, but you didn’t have to answer that fast.”
“You asked me a question.”
“I know what I asked.”
I looked over at her again. “You want the truth or something that’ll make you feel better?”
She was quiet for a second before looking back out the window. “The truth.”
“Then yeah. They probably watched you long enough to learn your routine.”
I saw her shift in her seat.
“How long?”
“Don’t know.”
“Days?” She then asked.
“Could’ve been.”
“Weeks?”
“Milan.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. I could see her mind going back over every day since the shooting, trying to remember cars she’d seen or people she’d passed without paying attention to them.
“Don’t do that to yourself.”
“Do what?”
“Sit there trying to figure out every person who looked at you too long.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“I got a pretty good idea.”
She turned toward me. “You always think you know everything?”
“No.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she mumbled.
I let out a chuckle, shaking my head. “Getting your attitude back, I see.”
“I never lost it.”
