The man in the yellow slicker reached the phone booth, but he didn’t pick up the receiver.

He stood under the metal awning, looking directly through the glass at me.

My phone buzzed in my hand with a new notification.

It was an email from Julian’s personal address, sent to my private account.

The subject line was blank.

I clicked it open.

The attachment was a single image.

It was a photograph of the diner’s front window, taken from across the wet street.

My own face was visible through the glass, blurred by the rain running down the pane.

I slid the phone across the formica table to Lydia.

She looked at the screen, her brow furrowing as she stared at the image.

Without a word, she grabbed her own phone and dialed a number.

“This is Lydia Monroe,” she said into the receiver. “I called five minutes ago about a suspicious vehicle outside the harbor diner. The occupant is now photographing my client through the window.”

She gave the dispatcher the license plate number she had noted earlier.