"Yes."
"Send them," she replied, bored. "I'll need the palette and the lighting specs. Want it to pop like the original, or you want the subtle version?"
"Perfect match. Down to the stretch on the canvas. Edge fray on top left, signature exact. No variations."
"That's what I do, honey."
I killed the call.
13 kimmy
I forced myself up before seven.
The sky was lightless and invisible behind the blanket of early morning fog that slipped from the nearest hills, but the street already buzzed with delivery vans and the rumble of trash collection. I'd promised myself I'd be normal today—just a regular person with a list of things to do.
Work. Grocery. Bank. Pharmacy. Then home.
I spent a good portion of the day doing some research for Geneva. But my gaze constantly drifted to the burner on the table. It sat there, square and unblinking, the matte plastic catching none of the light. I thought about how the man on the other end—Operative Seven—had spoken to me last time. All cold efficiency. No small talk, no preamble. Just a question.
Are you in danger?
Like he'd been waiting for the chance to fix something, as if danger was a math problem with only one solution.
I wondered what he was doing now. If he was watching, or planning, or moving on to the next name on the list. I wondered if he ever thought about the people whose lives he upended, or if they all blurred into the background like faces in a mall.
The urge—or maybe curiosity—to pick up the burner was intense, almost physical.
But I held back.
Do not call this number again unless you are in immediate danger.
Around 4 PM, I showered, dressed, grabbed my keys, double-checked the pepper spray, and headed out.
The air outside was brittle. Spring in the city always felt like a dare—one day of sun, then a week of gray, then a sudden heatwave followed by an afternoon of drizzle, as if the world couldn't decide what it wanted to be. I felt the chill cut through my hoodie and into my spine as I walked to my car.
The first errand was the bank. Then a grocery run at Joe's Market two blocks away. The parking lot was already a minefield of SUVs. I slipped into a spot near the exit, so I'd have a straight shot if things went sideways. Old habits.
Inside, I moved fast. I knew the layout, the trick to skipping the crowded aisles. I scanned the produce, checked the price on strawberries, and tried to ignore the couple arguing near the avocados. But I couldn't stop glancing over my shoulder. Every time the cart squeaked, my heart jumped. Every time someone got too close, my skin prickled. I pretended to check my list, but what I was really doing was mapping the exits.
I hated that I still felt that way, all this time later.
There was a man by the deli case. Dark blue jean jacket, headphones, beard. He watched me, just for a second, then looked away. But I caught him again in the bread aisle, pretending to study the bagels. His basket was empty.
My pulse doubled.
My gut told me to ditch the cart and run. It was tempting, but I was out of food, so I continued grabbing items off the shelves. Besides, it could just be my paranoia.
But the man continued to follow me. Not immediately, not obvious, but I could feel the drag of his attention. He lingered by the juice section, then drifted over to the hot bar, then paused by the freezers with dinners for one. He retraced all my steps.
I got what I needed, checked out in the self-service lane, and walked briskly back to the car. I loaded the groceries in the back, got in, and locked the doors before starting the engine.
As I pulled out, I saw the man again. He stood by the crosswalk, hands in his pockets, watching the traffic. No shopping bags.
I'd forgotten about the incident for a few days, chalking it up to my PTSD.
At the end of the week, I ran out of my anxiety medication and neededto pick up the refill from my pharmacy, which wasn't going to be ready until the evening according to the pharmacist.
When I got the text notification that the medication was ready, it was evening and I thought of walking there to get in some extra steps.
