Logan
Missy called our meetings conversations.
Not dates.
Not friendship.
Conversations between two acquaintances who were trying to decide whether one of them could be trusted.
I allowed her to use whatever word made her comfortable.
The first meeting after the bookstore lasted twenty minutes. We sat in a café with wide windows and too many people nearby for either of us to create a scene. Missy ordered tea, asked three questions about the Luke account, and left before I finished my coffee.
The second meeting lasted nearly an hour.
By the fourth, she no longer kept her coat buttoned as though she might need to escape without warning.
That felt like progress.
I did not mention it.
I had learned that Missy became suspicious whenever I appeared too pleased with myself. So I remain
