Page 24 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

“That guy right there,” Reese says, motioning to a guy walking like he’s not in a hurry down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. “Light blue shirt.”

It's a wrinkled button-down with sleeves rolled to the forearms. He’s also wearing dark jeans, brown leather sneakers, and a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. I smile. He’s perfect for planting a seed. Maybe someday when I can tell Reese what I actually do for a living, she’ll remember conversations like this and the news won’t come as such a shock to her.

“He’s an international intelligence operative.” He’s not. But he’s just right for my story.

Reese laughs so hard she almost snorts.

“Him?”

I nod. “Him.”

“He looks like he sells insurance. And then coaches his first grader’s soccer team.”

“That’s just his cover.”

“Ahh. I see Mackenzie rubbed off on you, too.” Reese nods at the guy. “Okay, so what’s your proof?”

“If I was looking for someone who didn’t belong…” I gesture toward Messenger Bag Guy as he gets into line at Muffin to See Here, “…I’d never pick him. It’s part of what makes him an excellent field operative.”

“Okay, so he’s ordinary-looking, but what’s the proof he’s a spy?”

“Out of habit, he’s checking reflections instead of turning his head. And he keeps drifting toward the curb—not to watch traffic, but to keep his sightlines open.” I gesture at the older man who’s less than twenty feet from us, on our side of the street. “He’s also trying not to look at the guy reading the outdoor menu.”

“Why’s he trying not to look at him?”

“Because they know each other— that guy’s an intelligence operative, too.” He’s not, either. I’d be able to tell if he was. But it’s clear they know each other, because they seem to be moving at the same pace, almost like they’re timing things to cross paths. “They’re both on surveillance. Different assignments. They spotted each other twenty minutes ago, but they’re professionals.”

She laughs. “Of course they are. Okay, so, what’s going to happen?”

“They’ll accidentally cross paths in…” I glance at my watch. “…three minutes. Then one will ask the other for directions.”

Reese shakes her head. “I’m not buying it. I think they both already know exactly where they’re going.”

I nod. “But they’re not actually exchanging directions. They’re exchanging confirmation that neither assignment has gone sideways.”

“Oh, I see.” She’s trying to hold back a smile.

Maybe someday, when I can finally explain to Reese what I really do for a living, “You’re a spy?” won’t be the first thing she says. Maybe it’ll be “That actually explains a lot.”

We eat our paninis and keep an eye on the two men as I tune in to the conversations going on around us. Force of habit. When we first came out onto the patio to eat, I scoped out our fellow table-sitters to check for threats and possible connections. Also force of habit.

Two of the three older women to our right are trying to convince the third that she can’t fake a hip replacement to get out of hosting Thanksgiving this year, unless she also stops going on walks with them.

The young parents of a toddler behind us are telling her that ketchup is not a beverage.

The group of college students at a table is discussing whether failing statistics is statistically the professor’s fault.

And the man on the first date is telling the woman how he organizes his spice rack alphabetically for efficiency’s sake.

About two and a half minutes after my prediction, the older gentleman reading the Black-Eyed Sue’s menu crosses the street, and Messenger Bag Guy leaves the bakery. When they meet on the sidewalk, they stop long enough for Messenger Bag Guy to ask Older Gentleman something. Older Gentleman responds, then they both keep walking. I could not have planned their timing more perfectly.

Reese turns slowly to me, awe on her face. “How did you know?”

It’s the exact kind of question I’m going to have to answer about Celeste Alati before Saturday. Not whether I can get her talking to Maxwell Shaw. I can get people talking. The harder question is how I’ll know when she stops seeing him as a stranger and starts seeing him as someone worth opening a door for.

“Wait. You know them, because they also live here in Cloakwood, right? Let me guess. They’re neighbors of yours?”

I shake my head. “Never seen either of them before.” I take a bite of my sandwich.