Page 66 of Every Step She Takes

There’s a sandwich shop a few blocks over, and I noticed it offered free Wi-Fi. I’ll grab lunch there and contact TPI.

As I walk, I think about what TPI found, and I wish, for the hundredth time, that I’d read Colt’s text thread before it disappeared. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I pass the sandwich shop and have to clear my head and backtrack. I arrive to find a tiny place ringed with counter seating, packed too tightly for privacy. There’s also a lineup out the door.

I consider finding another spot to eat, but well, I only had coffee this morning, and I’m starving. I’ll download the messaging app while I’m waiting, and if a seat clears, the sheer crush of people might mean no one will pay any attention to me.

I download the app and create a fake account using a new email address. I chooseLlamaGirlas my username. Hey, he said to start it with anL. His own username is PCTracy. Is his name Tracy? Surname? PC makes me thinkPolice Constable. That’s British, though.

As I step into the shop, I pause to figure out what I want to eat. Italy might love its meats and cheeses, but sandwiches aren’t its thing, and the second I see pastrami and rye on the menu, my mouth waters.

Back to the app. It pings him with an automated“LlamaGirl says hi!”complete with my emoji – a blond cheerleader waving and grinning. Totally looks like me. A moment later, an emoji appears waving back… and it’s a blond guy who looks like a high-school jock, the male equivalent of my choice. I have to laugh at that. Then I remember Thompson… who almost certainlywasa blond jock in high school. Huh.

LlamaGirl:Waiting in line for a sandwich. Chat in a minute?

PCTracy:Not going anywhere. So, llamas, huh?

LlamaGirl:My secret passion. They’re adorable.

PCTracy:They spit and bite, and they’re bad-tempered.

LlamaGirl:We have a lot in common.

PCTracy:LOL

LlamaGirl:So Tracy, huh? Please tell me PC isn’t Police Constable.

PCTracy:Nah. Plainclothes Tracy. Old comic.

LlamaGirl:Any relation to Dick Tracy?

PCTracy:It WAS Tracy… before he became a dick.

I give a sputtered snort that has the guy in front of me glancing over his shoulder. I also have to laugh because I’d been thinking of him as Thompson’s dick, the archaic name for private investigators, which is where theDickinDick Tracycomes from. It’s like us independently choosing highschool blond emojis – it feels like a connection when I am desperate for one.

I remember Thompson’s first email, very professional and formal, like PCTracy’s. Then came the more casual ones… exactly like the casual tone PCTracy has switched to here. More proof that I’m actually talking to the lawyer himself?

I step up and place my order. As the young woman starts to take it, a guy my age shoulders her aside with a murmured, “I’ve got this. Filipe needs help in the back.”

The new guy – the manager – asks for my order again. I give it, and he takes forever finding it on the touch screen.

“Cheddar cheese?” he asks.

I correct him. His gaze scans the screen, frowning as if he can’t find Swiss. Maybe because it’s thedefaultfor pastrami and rye?

“There it is,” he says. “Now, mustard. We have…”

He begins rhyming off options. I stop him with “Dijon is fine.”

Again, he takes forever to find it. Behind me, people start grumbling. The second counter person frowns at his supervisor. Typical management – jumps in when things get busy and actually slows the process.

“Pickles…” the manager says, gaze on his screen. “Is that spears or whole?”

“Either is fine.”

“Okay so… let’s see.” He reads back my order so slowly that I wonder whether I’ve developed an Italian accent and English seems like my second language. “Anything to drink with that?”

I’d love a Coke… but the people in my line may lynch me if I don’t wrap this up fast. I whip out a twenty instead.

The manager lifts the bill and squints at it. Then he looks at me with exaggerated sorrow.