Whose Money

She saw him for the first time on a Wednesday, outside the gallery rather than in any register, and did not know yet that she’d seen him at all.

He was standing across the Prinsengracht studying the brass plaque the way a man studies something he has decided in advance not to be seen studying too closely — a glance, a step back, a second glance timed to look accidental. Grey overcoat, unremarkable, the kind of face that would never once make a witness statement worth reading. Jo noted him the way she noted everyone now, filed and unweighted, and thought no more of it until three days later, cross-referencing a Chamber of Commerce filing that carried, for reasons of statutory disclosure rather than vanity, a passport-sized photograph of a company’s registered consultant.

The same grey overcoat. The same unremarkable face, made memorable only by how carefully it had avoided…