I.S.O.

Catherine entered Gordon’s Antiques and encountered a mirror. She startled herself with her disguise, was prepared to step out of the way of the sudden stranger approaching her. Eyeglasses big as safety goggles. Hair bunned and hidden inside a scary orange scarf. Squared jaw hungry for argument.

“Please excuse the mess,” called out a man. There was no mess, however; the showroom was as still and perfected as a museum. The identical chilly hush and feather-dusted reverence hung in its air. The man who’d spoken stood in a far corner like a wax figure. He must be Cory Gordon, she thought, the proprietor.

“Just looking,” she replied. She circled the store touching things—furniture, clocks, figurines—aware of him across the way moving as if to match her, in his hand a metal tape measure.

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