Chris
We’ve been following the guy for three blocks.
I don’t think he’s clocked us yet, but I’m not ruling it out. He’s too smooth. Too ordinary.
Everything about him screams ‘don’t notice me’. Neutral jacket, nondescript haircut, shoes without a squeak.
It’s the kind of forgettable that takes effort.
Elliott walks beside me, hands in his jacket pockets, trying to look like we’re just two teens out past curfew. He’s good at this. Better than I thought he’d be.
“He’s doubling back,” he murmurs.
Sure enough, the guy glances into a shop window and adjusts his path. It’s not dramatic. Just enough to make it seem like he forgot something.
Only, there’s nothing open on this street. And no one walks in loops unless they’re trying to catch a tail.
“Still think this is nothing?” Elliott asks, his voice low.
“No,” I say. “He’s watching the inn. He was there earlier, by the fountain. Just standing. Like he was waiting for someone.”
“Or reporting to someone.”
I feel a chill that has nothing to do
