by Carrie Smith
“Not really,” he said.
“Oh, yes. You are. In so many ways. You saved me. You saved Merchant. And you have saved yourself.”
She saw his eyes become shiny with tears he wouldn’t shed. She put her hand over his. “We come from all over to live in this city. We’re all running away from something. Fortunately this place is big enough to absorb all our sorrows and all our bad memories. You’re going to do just fine.” She smiled, and she was thinking about her own younger self, the eighteen-year-old who had come to New York with no one and nothing except a dismal past she’d wanted to outrun. She leaned forward. “Can I tell you what I’ve learned from this case?”
He sipped his coffee and nodded eagerly.
“I’ve learned that you shouldn’t try to forget the things that have happened. Bad or good. Don’t try to forget them. Just deal with them. Otherwise, they come back in ways you never expected.”
She stood and grabbed the check. She touched his shoulder. “Good luck with everything, Brandon. You know where to find me if you need anyone.”
Then she drove back uptown. Part of her was tempted to detour to the East Side, stop at Park Manor, and see Constance Hodges. But why? What would she say to the woman? I know you? I understand why you are so unhappy? I saw the same unhappiness in my mother?
Hodges was a sad, pitiful woman trapped in a subservient job the same way her mother was trapped in a subservient marriage. Neither one of them had Brandon’s courage or the resolve to break away. Their only self-expression was self-medication.
She steered the car up the West Side Highway. As she passed the light at Fifty-Seventh Street, she accelerated and the Upper West Side loomed on her right past the cliff of Trump Towers. She inhaled deeply. She was going back to her part of town, and she felt an unanticipated appreciation for this city that had taken her in and allowed her to start a new life. New York City could be so forgiving in that way.
Her head was still pounding, and she desperately wanted to sleep, but she turned off the highway at Ninety-Fifth Street and drove to the 171st. She found a parking spot right in front of the precinct, got out, and went inside. Behind the bulletproof glass, officers were doing what they always did. The rhythm of life in a precinct station never changed.
She climbed the stairs. Haggerty was sitting at his desk. He was on the phone, but when he saw her, he smiled with an “I’ll-be-right-off-don’t-go-away” wave of his hand. She stared into his blue eyes and waited for him to hang up.
“Well? Did he suspend you?” he asked when he got off.
“No.”
“Did he scream?”
“No.”
“How did you manage that?”
“Watch the news on Channel Two.”
“Only if I can watch it with you.”
She smiled.
“So are the two of you friends now?”
“More like two wolves who know their territory.” She reached in her pocket. “And speaking of territory.” She pulled out the small ring of keys she’d been carrying for the past two days. She set it on his desk in front of him, and he looked at it.
“What’s this?”
“You know.”
“Why?”
She sat on the edge of his desk and touched his face. “So you don’t have to ask the doorman to let you in anymore.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My family, Cynthia Swain, Cameron Swain, and Matthew Swain
My agent, Kathy Green
My editor, Matthew Martz
S. J. Rozan, for sharing her magic
Warren Hecht, for getting it all started
Constance Smith, my sister
Ret. NYPD Det. Matthew O’Donnell
Elizabeth Avery, Sue Foster, Jackie Freimor, Ann and Mark Gallops, Helen Graves, Sunil and Marcela Gulati, Sue Lund, Michelle Menzies-Abrash, Mandy O’Donnell, Ilaria Papini, Lorena Vivas, and Jane Young—for their friendship, insights, and talents
Sera and Tom Reycraft and all of my Benchmark Education colleagues—for their much-appreciated support
