Page 33 of Two Marlboros

“He hesitated too much. They made eye contact.”

I thought for a moment about what my colleague meant to imply. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, it seems obvious: Nathan and the first robber know each other.”

A chuckle escaped me. It was not because of the conclusion itself, so much as the confidence with which he had uttered it. I had learned to distrust the obvious long before.

“That might be an idea. What do you propose,Officer Stoner?”

“Well,” he replied, staring at the screen, “the leads we have at our disposal are not that many. I’d say it might be a good idea to start looking through Nathan’s circle. What do you think?”

He had a point. Nathan, however, had come almost immediately to report the detail of the robber’s eyes. If he really had been a friend of his and had recognized him, he certainlywould have waited before putting him on the spot like that. In any case, we didn’t have many other leads. I had also researched the symbols left on Michael’s car, to no avail.

So, I replied to Ashton that his theory might be a good place to start. As I finished speaking, his eyes lit up and his lips parted in a smile.

“Did you know that only two percent of the world’s population has green eyes?” he asked, elated. He felt he had a good idea, and the credit was basically his alone. It had only happened to me a couple of other times, and I somewhat envied the feeling he was having at that moment. You feel proud and unbeatable, at least until someone takes you apart.

“Really? I didn’t know that. We could still rule out the fact that he was wearing colored contact lenses and try to assume that green is the real color of his eyes. Beyond that, we assume that Nathan told the truth, regarding the robber’s eyes. The hesitation was there, you can clearly see it. I’d say your hunch is a good one, Ashton.”

“Perfect! We could start by breaking down his knowledge. Family, university, work. What do you say?”

I was sure he was only asking for my confirmation so as not to dare too much, and I knew that in his mind he had already organized his next moves, so I approved his idea, which resulted in sharing the duties. Ashton had already moved on with work and had already done some research on his family, which was then left for last, both because they had not lived together for a few years and because there were less people, and it was more unlikely they were involved - his brother was only five years old. Work and college were the circles we pondered the most. If Ashton’s hypothesis was right, the man he had run into was someone with whom he had more than a superficial friendship, someone he had not seen in a long time or expected to be there.

We began to make a to-do list: catching up on the names of colleagues, classmates, close friendships.

We had a lead and even I began to feel the euphoria advancing.

The excitement waned after a few hours when, at the end of the shift, I remembered what had happened the night before, which made me distressed. The only memory I had left of Oliver were his texts. The only trace of his sweetness, his love for me, his desire to share a life together. That one memory was in the hands of Nathan, who was due to arrive soon, or at least I hoped so.

I heard an informal, not too firm knock, almost like someone knocking on the bathroom to discover if it was free.

It was him; I was sure of it. “Come in.”

A blond blob made its way between the doorframe and the door, as my heart began to hammer at an accelerated pace as soon as he closed it again.

I suddenly realized how much I had missed Oliver, the risk I had taken by leaving my phone in the hands of a stranger who could have done anything with it. I looked at Nathan’s face and he seemed too tense for someone who had not peeked - had he found out about Oliver? - for someone who - dammit! - hadn’t minded his own business.

He knew.

I didn’t want intruders between Oliver and me, between his memory and me; instead, now someoneknew. I must have looked at him with a hint of acrimony because he didn’t even greet me. He merely waited for me to say something, his hands intertwined and his gaze downcast. As he saw that I could not utter a word, he loosened the entanglement and brought one hand to the shoulder strap he was carrying and slipped the other into his pocket. He immediately grasped my most precioustreasure and, as he laid it on the desk, I pounced on it without even deigning that boy a grateful glance.

I turned on the screen and unlocked the phone in a frantic urge tocheck, but he beat me to it.

“I didn’t touch anything,” he whispered. In fact, there was no shortage of contacts or texts. Especially the texts.

He was back to entwine his fingers, and as I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, I knew he was moving his gaze to every corner of the room. He wasn’t smiling, giggling, or saying any of his usual nonsense. He was just standing there, mute.

If he felt like saying something, he should have! Not knowing whether or not he had read my text messages, whether he had found out my secret was driving me crazy. I got up from the chair and he seemed to stiffen, so much so that at that moment he looked more like a frightened child, with that look so insecure and his shoulders hunched for protection.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” I asked.

I had been a fool: I could have dismissed him with a heartfelt thank you and lots of goodbyes. Yet I had asked him that question, which sounded almost like an invitation....

“Yes,” he whispered.

My body trembled. I knew what he was going to say.

“Here... I read the texts.”

---