Stupid, I think as I reach the stairs that lead above-ground. My heels click against the concrete steps, adding an accompanying beat to the word as it pounds through my head again and again. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I was stupid when I was a child, too stupid to see what was being done to my mom—and now that I know the truth, I’m still just as stupid, letting myself be swayed by something as primitive and inconsequential as physical desire.

When I reach the sidewalk and outside air, I pause a moment, exhale, try to expel the demons of self-doubt. So I made some mistakes. But still, I’m on track. In the end that’s all that matters. Whatever feelings I may or may not have for Lander . . . well, those will fade.

But my success? That’s something I’ll be able to savor for the rest of my life.

I take another deep breath, start walking, find my stride again.

“To justice,” I said as I handed him the drugged cognac.

And justice is exactly what I’m going to get.

The sunset’s pretty today; the pink hues make the streets of my neighborhood look deceptively safe. But there are little indications of a lurking danger: the occasional collection of glittering glass where a car was once parked, the subtle shabbiness of the local market, the shifty eyes of the boys who hang out on the corner, their pockets stuffed with danger and vice.

I’m a bit out of place right now in my expensive career dress and sex-kitten heels, but no one bothers me. They know me around here, and even those who don’t still recognize my walk—confident, forceful. Anyone who’s ever watched a nature show knows that predators look for weak victims, ones who will be easy to take down. They’ll target the wounded animal that reeks of fear first.

That’s not me.

Were you scared, Bell?

I shake my head, pushing away the memory as I walk on.

“Don’t let that man get under your skin, honey!” a gravelly voice yells.

I stop in my tracks and turn to see a homeless woman sitting on the pavement, a purple pen in one hand and a coloring book in the other. Lined up beside her are several broken crayons and stubs of colored pencils.

“What are you talking about?” I ask warily.

“I know your story,” she says. The streaks of gray in her mass of curly brown hair make her look more wild than unkempt. “You fell in love with the wrong man.”

I laugh, suddenly relieved that this woman doesn’t know anything about me and embarrassed that for a moment I worried she might. “I’m not in love with anyone,” I say gently.