Page 8 of Lost With My Enemy

When is it?

Mid-August. Right after you get to Calgary basically. Sloane says Elise is invited too. the more the merrier.

I’ll ask her.

Ask her NICELY. I know how you ask things.

"Your exit is in three kilometres," Elise says, eyes on the GPS. "Merge right in approximately ninety seconds."

"I see the sign."

"I'm just confirming."

"Appreciated."

She gives me a look. One that suggests she's trying to decide if I'm being sarcastic or genuine and is mildly irritated that she can't tell.

Genuine. Completely genuine. But I'm learning that Elise Boyd doesn't trust anything she hasn't verified herself, and that includes sincerity.

The Ottawa skyline rises through the tree line as we take the exit. Parliament Hill, green copper roofs against the August sky. The city unfolds in front of us, and Elise straightens in her seat, consulting her itinerary with fresh intensity.

"The rental is on Rideau Street. Parking is in the rear, accessible via the alley off Dalhousie. Check-in is at 3 PM but I've messaged the host to request early access."

"It's 11:30."

"I'm aware. I planned lunch at a restaurant on Sussex Drive at noon."

"Planned it?"

"Researched it. Reviewed three options. Selected the one with the highest consistency rating and the most reliable parking."

My mouth opens, closes, opens again. "You reviewed restaurants for a road trip lunch stop?"

"I review everything."

"Everything?"

"I reviewed you."

The truck drifts slightly toward the shoulder. Correcting, I glance over. "You reviewed me?"

"Your photography portfolio is online. Your Instagram is public. You have 47,000 followers, you post approximately every three days, and your captions are exclusively single-word observations, which tells me you prefer images over language, brevity over explanation, and aesthetics over structure." She pauses. "Also, your last three girlfriends all have public profiles and they all follow each other, which suggests your breakups are amicable, which suggests you leave before things get complicated."

The truck is very quiet.

"You got all that from Instagram."

"I got all that from due diligence."

"Most people just Google someone's name and check for a criminal record."

"I did that too. You're clean."

"Thanks?"

"You're welcome."

Ottawa traffic is light for a Sunday. We cross the bridge from Gatineau, the river wide and flat below us, and find the restaurant on Sussex without a single wrong turn, because Elise has been navigating with the precision of an air traffic controller for the last forty minutes.