They stepped out into another corridor, this one bustling with men and women whose tunnel vision attested to their busy workaday lives. The commissary, a large, bright space, was at the far end. It was an off-hour, so the place was sparsely populated—just a couple of people at the vending machines, buying snacks to take back to their offices, desks, or workstations.

He ordered them both hamburgers, fries, and Cokes, then chose a table in a quiet corner. He liked the way she ate, baring her teeth, taking small bites, chewing for a long time before swallowing. Nothing put him off more than a woman who bolted her food like an animal.

When she was halfway through her burger, she put it down, wiped her hands on a paper napkin, and said, “Do you have any idea what kind of a job Luther has in mind for me?”

Dickerson registered surprise. “Up until you said it I had no idea he’d offered you a job.”

Lucy looked at him soberly. “I have nowhere to sleep, either.”

“I’m sure Luther’s considered that.”

There was a silence between them. He was starting to feel a bit disconcerted when she said, “Have you ever killed someone?”

Now he looked startled. “God, no. Why d’you ask?”

She shrugged, peered into her Coke as if wanting to lose herself there.

He almost choked on the next question. “Did you?”

“Almost.” She glanced up, met his gaze. “Not quite.” She breathed. “But close.”

“What happened?”

She sighed, sat back in her chair, which, intentionally or not, gave him a better view of her thrust-out breasts. “I ran away from home. Don’t ask for details.” She ran a hand through her thick hair, which brought one breast into further prominence. “Anyway, people I was with were doing H—mainlining. One of them was a guy who had been giving me a lot of shit. I hated his guts. This one night, he slipped down, further down than he had been before, I guess. He was on his back when he started to vomit. His mouth filled up and it started to dribble down his cheek.”

Dickerson felt his stomach clench, and he pushed his plate away, his appetite suppressed by incipient nausea.

She took a breath, maybe to distract him, which it did. “So there he was, on his way out of the veil of tears. In a couple of seconds he started to choke, then suffocate. I stood there watching. No one else was conscious, let alone in a position to help him. Only me. I wanted to just stand there and watch—watch the man who had tormented me over and over die. But I couldn’t. I turned him on his side, smacked the back of his head, and he was okay.”

She looked at Dickerson with her huge coffee-colored eyes. “To this day I don’t know whether I did the right thing.”