Page 33 of Sexting the Pakhan

I look at Zoya again and hate where my mind goes. Because now I wonder what she would be like if she stopped being so careful.

“What are you looking for?” she asks.

I tap the book once with my thumb. “This.”

“Oh.” She glances at the title. “You found it.”

“Someone else found it first.”

Her brow creases. “What does that mean?”

“It means this book was moved this morning.”

“That happens all the time.”

“Not this one.”

The caution enters her face slowly. She’s still flustered, but now she’s paying attention properly. Good. She isn’t stupid.

“Why does it matter?” she asks.

I look toward the camera again.

She follows my gaze. When she looks back at me, the blush is almost gone.

“You want the security footage,” she says.

“Yes.”

“I can’t give you that.”

“I didn’t ask yet.”

“But you were going to.”

I almost smile. “You’re good at this.”

“At what?”

“Noticing things.”

Her fingers tighten around the books. “You make that sound like a problem.”

“It can be.”

She stares at me for a second, and something shifts in her expression. She still likes me. That’s obvious. But now she’s starting to understand there’s something wrong with this conversation.

I should step back.

Instead, I say, “I need to know who touched this book.”

“Why?”

Before I can answer, I catch movement in the glass panel at the end of the aisle. A man near periodicals shifts his weight. Another stands by the front doors, one hand inside his jacket.

They aren’t reading. They aren’t waiting for anyone.

They’re watching me.