Page 38 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“The best kind,” I say, and mean it.
We keep it to kissing, hands on a polite side of impolite, the kind that leaves you dizzy and steadied at once. When she finally tucks under my arm and falls asleep, I stare at the ceiling andmake a quiet, ridiculous promise to a future that can’t hear me yet: figure it out. Whatever it takes.
The next dayis errand-shaped joy. We hit the artisan market for gifts: she debates between two scarves for Amelia, and I pick the blue because I paid attention yesterday. She finds a tiny wool cap with bear ears and holds it up to my chest to gauge scale. My heart does that expanding trick again. The barista at the Bean Flicker writesMEL + LUCon our cups like we’re a high school equation and the middle-aged couple at the next table grins at us like they know how it ends.
And then the air shifts. You feel a tail before you prove one—static at the base of the skull, the way reflections misbehave. We’re three blocks down Main when the hair on my neck stands up.
“Pause,” I say casually, steering her toward a storefront window dressed in fake snow and toy trains. In the glass I can see us, the street behind, and the man thirty yards back who didn’t get the memo about looking where you’re “supposed” to look. Average height, rental-car jacket, hat too low. He adjusts nothing when we stop, and then he pivots to admire a wreath like he has all the time in the world. He is very good at being no one.
“Gingerbread?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
“Cinnamon roll,” she says, which is brave-speak forI’m fine, but I see you.Her hand sneaks into mine like it was supposed to live there.
I lengthen our stride, then shorten it, cut across traffic midblock, detour into the alley with the murals, pretend to take a selfie so I can clock the angle behind us. He doesn’t follow us into the alley. Smart. But he’s there again when we come out the other side, on the far sidewalk, nonchalant to the point of performance.
Mercer? Could be. Or a copycat. Either way I don’t like ghosts that keep their distance and learn my breath.
I thumb my phone open and drop a pin to the team channel, one-handed, message terse.
Possible tail. Male, 30s, average build, stone-gray jacket, navy knit cap. Main between Third and Spruce. Reflection discipline decent. Pace mirrors.
GUNNER: Copy. On the move from south lot.
DUKE: On foot from Birch. Don’t spook him yet.
We detour into a home goods store that smells like cinnamon brooms and overwhelm. I steer Melanie to a display of overpriced tea towels and switch my stance, angling myself so I can see both door and mirror. She nails the part she didn’t audition for—pointing at afa la latowel like it’s our top priority, leaning into me like she’s just figured out she gets to.
“He here?” she whispers without moving her lips.
“Across the street,” I murmur. “Window posture. Hands in pockets, right elbow slightly out—might be a tell for a holster or just bad tailoring. No print I can see.”
“Duke?” she asks, all cool water.
“En route.”
She nods, jaw set, eyes bright. I think, not for the first time, that falling for brave is a hazard of my occupation.
I buy tea towels we don’t need to buy a minute. We exit as a couple bickering sweetly about whether anyone, anywhere, needs a towel that saysYule Be Sorry(we agree: yes). I clock our ghost again in the reflection of the bakery truck. He’s talking to no one. He’s listening to something.
“Left,” I say, and Melanie follows. We slip into the small crowd by the carolers, then cross with them like we’re just extra lyrics. My phone hums.
GUNNER: I’ve got a visual. That’s Mercer. North face, thirty-five-ish, lazy nose break, smoking habit he picks up and drops when bored.
DUKE: Two blocks west. If he follows you past the clock tower, I’ll cut him off at Mason. Lucas, don’t burn if you don’t have to.
“Define burn,” Melanie says softly, reading my face again.
“Break cover,” I say. “Make it a chase.”
“Let’s not,” she says, dry. “I’m very fast, but only to the bathroom.”
I huff a laugh I don’t deserve. The crowd gives us cover for one more block. At the clock tower, I slow our pace deliberately, make a show of fishing in my bag for “chapstick” (gun hand free, other palm open). Mercer slows, too. He’s not trying to be invisible now. He wants time. To watch. To learn.
“Your call,” Duke pings. “I can spook him and tail, or we hold pattern and keep him on the hook.”
I look at Melanie’s profile—the stubborn tilt of her chin, the calm. I weigh the options, run the branches. If we burn him, he bolts, and we reset the chessboard. If we let him watch, we learn what he wants to learn, and I don’t like being anyone’s study.
“Spook,” I send. “He’s close enough to our orbit I don’t want him thinking we’re predictable.”
