But his eyes aren’t on me. They’re tracking something down the block, toward the corner where Kir just disappeared with his phone.
Then they come back to me.
Then they go back to the corner.
I watch in mute horror as Doug’s brain connect the dots. Even if he weren’t a reporter with forty years of experience, it’s not a hard puzzle to solve. I’m still wearing Kir’s shirt, for God’s sake. I might as well have GUILTY henna-tattooed on my forehead.
He knows I’ve been sleeping with the enemy.
“Hi, Doug,” I say weakly. “Fancy seeing you here.”
He shifts the cheese bag to his other hand and takes a step closer to the table. “Was that Kir Lazarev?”
Like a good reporter, he already knows the answer to his question. He’s just waiting for me to confirm it on the record.
“Stop right there.” He
