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CALVIN BIGALOW

Silver Springs, Maryland

C alvin Bigalow was at his wits’ end. Every week, he had emailed Sofria, asking her to call him.

He wasn’t sure who was monitoring her communication, so he erred on the side of caution, but he wanted to warn her about the man he had seen following her in Baltimore and snooping in her office.

The replies were always friendly, assuring him she would when she had time.

His phone never rang. He had no way of contacting her short of flying to the embassy in Jordan and banging on the door.

Calvin had set up a whiteboard in his bedroom in hopes of creating a complex web of suspects and theories. To date, the board held a picture of Sofria from an office birthday party in the breakroom and a stick figure with “bad man” written beneath it.

He’d done everything he could possibly think of to gather information.

After using the excuse of needing to forward mail, Calvin got the address of her Georgetown apartment.

The borderline-rude woman he spoke to at the front door had moved into Sofria’s place.

She told him nothing had been left behind, and she didn’t have a forwarding address.

A perky barista at the coffee shop on the corner remembered Sofria.

Vanilla latte with whip . Other than that, she didn’t know anything.

On a longshot, Calvin had asked if she remembered a lanky guy who drank coffee with five Splendas.

Oh yeah, Swizz Beatz—you know, because of the hoodie.

He came in a few times in the morning, around the same time as your friend.

I remember him because one time Duane was super hungover, and he gagged adding the sweetener, so I had to remake it.

He hasn’t been in for a long time. That confirmed Calvin’s fears.

It also drove home the fact that he had no information and no way of helping.

Downstairs, his mother was watching When Harry Met Sally .

It was the infamous deli scene. Calvin was about to put on headphones to drown out the distraction when it hit him.

Calvin usually brought a brown bag lunch to work, but one day last Spring, he forgot and ran down to the food court to grab a sandwich.

Sofria was sitting at a table for two with a big, friendly guy.

When she spotted Calvin, she gave him a wave and introduced her lunch date.

Sofria said he worked in private security.

“Private Security” could mean any number of things, but Sofria’s casual introduction—and her association with him—led Calvin to believe he was on the up-and-up.

Sofria liked this man; Calvin could tell.

He was flattered that Sofria would share something about her personal life with him.

It made Calvin feel like they were real friends.

Because of that significance, Calvin remembered his name: Leo Jameson.

A quick Google search revealed he was a former Navy SEAL and senior operative at Bishop Security, based out of Beaufort, South Carolina.

The “Contact Us” option on the Bishop Security website felt like a waste of time.

Jameson would probably never even see the message.

Truth be told, Calvin didn’t want to call or email anymore.

The time for action had come; he either needed to dive in or forget the whole thing—stay Peter Parker or become Spiderman.

If he was going to step up, he needed to act.

“Calvin! I need the bunion cream!”

His mother’s words were all the motivation he needed, and, after calling work to explain an emergency leave of absence, Calvin pulled his unused suitcase out from under the bed.