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Since Krista is gone and I’m broke, after I finish with my laundry, I hit one of the halal food carts to grab dinner.

Don’t judge. The truth is I love those food stands—the tantalizing smells of the roasted garlic and charred meat always get to me. I even kind of admire when they don’t list the prices on the cart and then make up a seemingly random number after they’ve already prepared your order. Unfortunately, ever since Krista got really bad food poisoning from one by the entrance to Central Park, she won’t eat from them anymore. But she’s not here right now, and this is an entirely different food truck. It’s not fair to discriminate against every food cart in the city based on that one truck that made Krista vomit for two hours straight.

I am waiting in the line to get my falafel wrap when I get this prickling sensation in the back of my neck, like someone is watching me. I ignore it for as long as I can, because, hey, the city is crowded and there are always people around, especially weirdos who stare at the folks standing in line for the food cart.

But the sensation doesn’t go away, and it bothers me enough that I turn around, just to prove to myself that I’m being paranoid. And I almost do a double take.

There’s a man by a newsstand adjacent to the food cart, who is looking right at me.

The man is short and scrawny, with wrinkled clothes and an unkempt goatee. As soon as he catches me looking at him, he looks away, as if he’s suddenly very interested in the newsstand’s gum selection. Was he looking at me or just considering his dinner options? I’m sure it’s the latter. I could almost shrug the whole thing off, except…

He looks extremely familiar.

I stare at the baseball cap on his head, trying to jog my memory. It’s a white baseball cap with a picture of a cartoon penguin. It’s not the kind of cap you’d expect a grown man to be wearing, and I’m certain I’ve seen it before.

Then it hits me. He was one of the people who came to look at the spare room before Whitney showed up. The guy who wanted to drill a hole in the wall, so I had to kick him out. And not just that, but I’m certain I’ve seen him at least one other time since then.

He looks up again, and when our eyes meet, he doesn’t look away this time.

I step out of line—which I’m pissed off about because I’ve been waiting for ten minutes already—and I stride over to the newsstand. The man adjusts his cap and, once again, drops his gaze. “Excuse me,” I say. “Is there a problem?”

He doesn’t answer me. He picks up a package of Mentos and examines the label.

I clear my throat loudly. “I said, excuse me .”

At first, I’m sure he’s going to continue to ignore me, but then he adjusts his cap again and raises his chin to look up at me. “What you did to Whitney,” he hisses at me, “was disgusting .”

My jaw drops. What the hell? How does this random prospective tenant know Whitney? That couldn’t possibly be a coincidence, could it? And what did I do to her that was so disgusting?

“What did you say to me?” I breathe.

“You heard me.”

This time, he doesn’t break our eye contact. He is staring at me—challenging me.

It’s at that moment I realize I am at least half a head taller than this little creep, and I’ve also got a good fifty pounds on him. I haven’t been hitting the gym as hard as I did when I was unemployed, but I’ve still built up plenty of muscle. I’ve never thrown a punch in my life, but if I did it now, he would go down. And damn, it would feel good .

I take a step toward him, anger coursing through my veins. “ What did you say to me?”

The little weasel’s eyes widen—he knows I’m not messing around and that I could flatten him if I wanted to. He scurries off down the street, reminding me a little of the rats I see when I’m down in the subway.

At least I’m not as paranoid as I thought I was. That man really was staring at me—I wasn’t imagining it. But that doesn’t make me feel even the tiniest bit better. Because I have absolutely no idea why.