Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)
as it was out, I knew it was true. Jeff had helped to distract me, but actually talking with Rob, I realized how deeply hurt I felt about his temporary abandonment—and how very much my brain felt like scrambled eggs when I tried to sort out my feelings about the Trapper stories. I really did need some time away from him to try to figure things out.
    * * *
     
    Jeff brought flowers—purple irises that were perfect for my apartment. The first time Rob and I had gone out—gone to lunch, actually—he’d brought daisies. If Rob and I were really breaking up, I realized that similar scenes would be played out hundreds and thousands and tens of thousands of times in the next few months or maybe even the next couple of years. No matter what happened, no matter how insignificant or how seemingly happiness-producing, it would remind me of Rob and would sting. The thought was profoundly depressing.
    I wanted to go someplace loud and cheerful, someplace with pasta, and Jeff had asked me to name the spot, so I picked Little Italy in Noe Valley.
    Since I knew the city better, we took my old gray Volvo instead of Jeff’s rented car. And practically had the streets to ourselves. If fear stalked, he was doing it in solitary splendor. And he was certainly stalking—or
it
was, I should say. Fear was nearly palpable on those not normally mean streets. The few people who were out walked close to the buildings, glancing around far too frequently.
    Even Castro Street, the liveliest in the city, looked deserted. Funny, I thought, that was probably one of two safe places left in town—the other being Pier 39. I guess I was too quiet, because Jeff offered me a penny for my meager mental processes.
    “I was thinking about the Trapper.”
    “Kind of a depressing topic, isn’t it?”
    “Jeff, I know you can’t really tell, since you don’t live here, but the city just isn’t itself.”
    “It does seem a little gloomy out.”
    “I was trying to think what he might do next—I think he’ll go for something different every time. So the Castro’s probably safe, and Pier 39, wouldn’t you think?”
    “You certainly think about funny things on a date.”
    “It doesn’t interest you?”
    He shrugged. “Not really. I don’t go in much for mass murder.”
    I started to get nervous because it was time to look for a parking place, then realized I could have my pick. That gave me a
frisson.
    Jeff put a not entirely unwelcome arm around my shoulders. “What is it, Rebecca?”
    “The town’s so weird, that’s all.”
    “Hey, look—aren’t those Chicanos?”
    “Mm-hmm. Why?”
    “Are you sure this neighborhood’s okay?”
    “Pretty sure. It’s not a tourist area.”
    “That’s not what I meant.”
    I laughed, even tousled his hair. I was beginning to get a kick out of his big-city naiveté. “You’re hopeless, you know that?”
    He looked back at me in a puzzled way, as if I’d spoken in Venusian.
    Not only was there no wait for a table at Little Italy, the place was less than half full. It’s usually so noisy you have to shout, but that night it was unfamiliarly subdued. The atmosphere reminded me of something from my childhood, the year I was in fifth grade. Mom and Dad had strongly opposed the intrusion of Christmas into our Jewish lives, breaking the hearts of their two usually indulged daughters by absolutely declining to have a Christmas tree. This particular year a new family had moved in next door—the Walkers, whose three sons, in the most coltish high spirits, spent nearly the whole month of December bringing home trees and large evergreen branches and giant shopping bags; helping their parents make wreaths and cookies and fruitcakes; playing Christmas carols on their various musical instruments; and wrapping things. Mickey and I were driven mad with jealousy. Never did two children whine and beg and pout and plead more in a single month. And yet, we were not allowed to have a tree or to get in on the fun in any

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