It wasn’t his first offense. He was also guilty of tucking the corner of a page he needed as well as laying the book flat, page-side down when she’d complained about dog-earing.
“You need to be careful with those.” Even as she spoke, she knew her note of caution was in vain.
He glanced emotionlessly at the book with the broken spine. “They’re just books.”
Ava didn’t bother to suppress her grimace as she returned to her own work. After she’d finished photographing the clandestine newspapers, she helped Mike with his stack as he’d done with her before countless times. The sharing of labor had never really been discussed, and neither of them had ever asked the other for help. It was just something that came naturally to both of them and part of what made them such a good team.
It was also a good opportunity to handle books the way they should be.
But even as she went through the motions of repeated photography, the article in Combat with the typos clung irritably to the back of her mind like a burr.
Ava brought the edition of Combat home with her that night. First, she read through it again, searching the other articles to determine if they also contained typos she had initially missed.
They did not.
Then she set it aside and chastised herself for being ridiculous. But even as she brushed her teeth that night, she still couldn’t shake it from her thoughts.
She stalked out to the dining area where the publication sat on her table, took out a fresh pad of paper, and wrote down every wrong letter. There were fifty-eight staring back at her.
Fifty-eight in a print that never had even one typo was hardly a mistake. No, it was undeniably intentional.
She rearranged the letters, marking them off as she tried to create words in French, but nothing seemed to work. There were too many variations creating too many possibilities.
When the hands of her watch slipped past two in the morning, she resigned herself to give up for the night. The list of letters followed her into sleep, swirling in her brain and teasing at her subconscious. Not that it helped. In the morning she was just as stumped as before.
She woke to a foggy mind and an unresolved mystery. It would be best to put it aside, she knew, and yet could not stop herself from reconsidering those fifty-eight letters over and over in the background of her thoughts.
It was a crisp November day with a full sun overhead, and a breeze brisk enough to rouse the grogginess from her. Alfonso waved as she approached his kiosk.
They chatted briefly in Portuguese as they always did, though now he corrected her translation less and less. However, as they talked, there was a slight tension to him, an uneasiness that made him slide his gaze from hers several times.
“I have your papers for you.” He bent to retrieve the stack. “There is one I think you should see. Just under the latest copy of Das Reich.”
Ava thanked him, but he continued to stare at her. His smile was tight, and he gave her a ready nod, clearly wanting her to look at that moment.
Das Reich sat on top of the pile. She peeled it back to find a note. “The German has been asking about your schedule.”
Ava folded the paper back into place as casually as she could and tried to ignore the unease prickling through her. “That does look interesting.” She smiled and thanked him.
The German.
Lukas.
He gave her a worried wave and shifted his focus to another customer, a mother with a fidgeting toddler.
She glanced about but did not see the Nazi in the vicinity. Perhaps later, she could ask Alfonso for more information, if there was any more to be had. Regardless, the sensation of being watched suddenly crawled over her skin like something living.
A shudder ran down her back.