The woman in the red coat arrived at the café at exactly 3:47 every Tuesday. She ordered a cortado, never looked at her phone, and left after twenty minutes. She always sat at the table by the window, even when better seats were available.
Marco had been watching her for six weeks. Not in a sinister way—he was a writer, and she had become a character. He'd filled three pages of his notebook with theories: grieving widow, reluctant art dealer, woman hiding from someone.
Today, she didn't come alone.