"I would like to see the watch."
A young cashier, Beatrice Donavan, name pinned slightly crooked, looked up from the register near the front door. Her mouth opened. Wade's eyes flicked toward her. Her mouth closed.
Wade pivoted. He stepped directly in front of Solomon. The smell of his aftershave was sharp and sweet, and underneath it, the iron tang of adrenaline. "I'm going to need both of you to empty your pockets."
"Excuse me," Solomon said.
"Open. Now, both of you, black thief. Empty your pockets. Now. I know you're stealing." The word landed in the room like a slap. A man near the door froze with his hand still on the watch box. Two customers turned to look. The woman in the camel coat lifted her phone, but not to record—to call someone. Her hand was shaking. She did not press the green button.
Solomon's face did not change. His voice did not rise. "Sir, we just walked in. We haven't touched anything."
"Shut your mouth, boy. I've been watching you since you came through that door." Wade's spit flecked Solomon's collar. He was inches away now. Close enough that Solomon could smell his coffee breath. The iron tang of pure adrenaline. The cheap starch on his white shirt. "You two look like trouble, and everyone in this store knows it."
"We're just looking around. That's all."
Wade's lip curled. His eyes raked down Nina's body—her jeans, her sneakers, her ringless left hand jammed in her jacket pocket—then back up to Solomon's faded Yale hoodie, then back down to Nina's shoes. "Looking around in a store like this, dressed like that? You filthy little rats. You people always come crawling in here thinking you can steal. I know your kind. I'm not stupid. You came here to steal."
Beatrice, behind the register, put a hand over her own mouth. Margaret Hollis stayed behind the counter. She did not move. She did not speak. She held her tablet at her chest like it was a small shield. Her eyes met Nina's for one full second. Then she looked down at the marble floor.
Solomon raised both hands, slow. Palms open. The universal gesture of a black man in America who has done the math again on what it costs to be right. "We'll leave. We don't want any trouble."
"You're right. You'll leave." Wade was almost shouting now. "And if I ever see your faces in here again, I'll have you arrested on the spot." He grabbed the back of Solomon's hoodie at the collar. His knuckles dug into the base of Solomon's neck. He yanked. The hoodie fabric stretched. A seam at the shoulder gave a small audible pop. "Get on the ground or I'm calling the cops right now."
"We're leaving. Right now, we're leaving."
Wade marched him three steps toward the door. Solomon stumbled once. The bell on the door rattled against the glass. Wade was breathing through his nose, loud, like a man finishing a workout he'd been waiting to do all morning.
Nina followed. Her hand reached forward. Her fingertips brushed Solomon's wrist. Wade saw the movement. He turned and slapped her hand down. The sound of skin on skin in the quiet room was not loud, but 15 people heard it. The woman in the camel coat made a small noise, not a word, just a breath that escaped.
"Don't you dare cover for each other, you thieving blackies. Get out now before I drag you out myself."
He hit the door with the heel of his palm. The brass handle clanged against the frame. The autumn air came in cold and smelled like roasted chestnuts from the cart at the corner. He shoved Solomon through first. Solomon's shoulder caught the doorframe. He grunted, but did not fall.
Nina was next. Wade's hand on the middle of her back. Not hard enough to knock her down, hard enough to make a point.
They stumbled onto the sidewalk. A taxi honked. A woman walking a small white dog veered around them without slowing, eyes forward like they were a puddle. Behind the glass, the showroom did not move. 15 customers stood frozen in the soft yellow light. The man with the watch box. The woman in the camel coat with the phone still pressed to her ear. The salesman in the slim charcoal suit. Beatrice with her hand still over her mouth. Margaret Hollis behind the counter, eyes on the floor. Two regulars who'd been Sterling & Vance customers for over a decade. A young couple from Connecticut who'd come in for a wedding band. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Nobody opened the door. Nobody asked if Nina was okay. Nobody asked if Solomon was hurt. Nobody told Wade to stop. Nobody picked up a phone.
Wade turned back toward the floor. He smoothed his blazer. He nodded once at the woman in the camel coat, a small nod, the nod of a man saving a kingdom, and walked toward the back of the store.
On the sidewalk, Solomon dusted off the front of his hoodie. His hand was steady. He bent down and picked up Nina's sneaker, which had come half off in the shove. He helped her slide her foot back in.
"You okay?"
"I will be."
"You sure?"
"After Monday." She looked up at him. Her eyes were clear. She had not cried. She would not cry. "After Monday, I will be."
He nodded once. He took his phone out of his back pocket. He scrolled to one contact and pressed it.
Behind the glass, Wade stopped at the doorway to the back office. He glanced once at the safe. He looked over his shoulder at the showroom. Then he stepped through and he closed the door behind him.
The phone rang once. Gregory Whitfield picked up on the second. "Solomon, it's Saturday. Tell me it's not the kids."