He would have been fine, but the body and brain don't always play well together. The body would have fallen in a way that was natural, the blow cushioned. The brain freaks out. Fight or flight. Panic response. That's what happened to Paul. He tried to save himself. Stiffened. Tightened. Twisted.

It didn't save him.

His body tumbled the rest of the way, and at the bottom, his neck twisted. The bone broke. Miriam will later read that sometimes that's called an "internal decapitation." It was over quickly.

Miriam didn't need to be there to see it. She'd already seen it play out. This was his hour.

She walks down the steps. Pauses over his body.

You could've saved him, that voice says. It always says that. As if on cue, a shadow passes over head – a balloon, she thinks, a Mylar balloon. But when she looks up, it's just a cloud passing over the sun, not a balloon at all.

"I'm sorry, Paul. I wouldn't have minded you telling the world about me. They wouldn't have believed you, of course. Nobody ever does. But it wasn't meant to be, pal."

Miriam looks through his stuff. She takes the recorder. She goes through his wallet, like a vulture picking meat off bone. Paul is a wealthy kid, that much is obvious, and he has a couple hundred bucks plus a few gift cards, a couple credit cards.

With nimble fingers, she undoes the sweet, sweet calculator watch and slides it up over her hand, tightening it too tight against her wrist. The bite of the band will always remind her where the watch came from.

She sits there for a little while longer. She gets something in her eye, and she wipes it away. Pollen, or dust. Or just the stink of the city.

TWENTY-NINE

Back Seat Driver

"I am a businessman."

These words wake Miriam.

The voice belongs to Hairless Fucker.

He's not talking to her. He's talking to Ashley.

They're in a car. No – an SUV. Cream leather interior. Uppity; it's got DVD screens in the backs of the seats, and USB jacks, a glowing GPS and back-up camera in the console up front.

Miriam's in the back-back seat. She doesn't know what is covering her mouth, but she wouldn't be surprised to learn it's two strips of black electrical tape in a wide X.

Her hands, zip-tied. Feet, too. She feels groggy. The world swims. This is more than just the Taser. A faint memory flits through her brain – hands holding her, a pinprick, a syringe, a warm and fuzzy undertow. Pine trees pass outside the car. Dark green against a gray sky. They pass fast, they blur. Whatever the drugs were, they're still not out of her system.

Ashley is in the seat ahead of her, facing forward.

Hairless sits next to him.

Way up in the front, Harriet drives. Frankie's in the passenger seat, cleaning his gun. The smell of gun oil – heady, rich, mechanical – fills the vehicle.