Logan is having you tailed.
You know it's Logan because your father died from a gunshot wound last year. The minivan is red, and the older woman behind the wheel could have been a soccer mom. The details are perfect. You wonder how long she's been sitting outside your office, how many days, how many months, how many years.
You don't get up to go give the woman a piece of your mind. You do run the licence plate.
At first you figure Logan thinks you're having an affair. You test him by going out by yourself. "I'm going out for a while," you say to him, and put on a skirt and your leather jacket.
He doesn't even blink, just kisses you and smiles. "Have fun. I've got some work so I'll probably be asleep if you get back late."
You go downtown and end up in a little bar with a jazz piano player in the corner, mostly feeling guilty because Logan didn't blink at you heading out. He can't think you're cheating. The young guy in the corner looks like a wrestler. He followed you from home.
"Logan," you say over the phone, "where are you?"
"In the office, Veronica." He sounds puzzled.
You look in the mirror you stood on your desk, and watch the older woman in her red minivan talk surreptitiously on a mobile phone. You wonder if line two at Logan's office is blinking.
Finally, you decide to ask. "Logan," you say, "do you trust me?"
"Of course," he says.
"I mean," and you sit up, "to do my job."
A shadow crosses his face, and then he smiles, and kisses you tenderly. "Of course," he murmurs, and wraps his arms around you tight. You let him; you know that Logan needs to see you safe. He won't ever erase the past, nor forget it.