In her defense, she'd been distracted on day one — she'd come home, told Marco she'd gotten turned around on a detour, taken the longest shower of her life, and then sat at her desk and stared at her Nabokov notes for four hours without reading a single word. By day two she had re-established equilibrium, mostly by refusing to think about grey eyes and warehouse chairs.
The man was good. She'd give him that. He changed positions, changed jackets, stayed in her peripheral rather than directly behind. If she hadn't spent the past two years reading and re-reading Nabokov's thoughts on how unreliable observation creates blind spots — how we see what we expect to see and miss what doesn't fit our narrative — she might never have clocked him.
But she had. And she did.
He was maybe twenty-five, broad-shouldered, with a Bratva tattoo just visible at his collar that he'd made no effort to hide.
Aria bought a second coffee, took a seat on the campus wall facing the path, and waited for him to do a lap and come back around.
When he did, she held the cup out to him.
He stopped.
"Americano," she said. "I guessed. You look like an Americano person." She tilted her head. "Tell your employer that I noticed on day two, I haven't told my brother, and I have no intention of going to the police because I have a functional sense of self-interest. Also I'd like the surveillance to stop because it's making it very hard to concentrate."
The man stared at her. Then at the coffee.
Then he took out a phone, turned away, said four words in rapid Russian, listened, and turned back.
"He wants to see you," the man said.
"I assumed," Aria said. "Finish the coffee first. It's cold out."
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She Has a Shadow She Didn't Ask For — Chapter 4 of Unravel Me Pakhan | Novelosity
