My mind is still awash with memories of my mother crying, memories of the blood. I’ve spent years turning my mind and body into a weapon in order to seek justice through cleaner means.

Despite my earlier willingness to act, thinking about my mother’s ordeal also makes me never want to see that kind of violence up close again.

But if Travis is setting me up . . . if violence is the only option left for me . . . isn’t it worth it? That’s always been my plan B, and isn’t that fair? Wouldn’t that at least resemble justice?

I get on the elevator thinking about Lander, and then Mercedes, Travis’s daughter. Mercedes, who is still innocent and who still seems to love her parents.

The elevator door opens after descending two floors, letting in strangers, just random employees of this dreaded bank. They don’t acknowledge me as they press the button for the lobby.

I nervously rub my left thumb over my right palm. After a moment I realize that I once saw my mother make this same jittery motion after she found Nick. She was trying to scrub his blood off her hands.

And Lady Macbeth had scrubbed her guilt-ridden hands and asked: “Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”

It’s a quote from one of Lander’s favorite plays, one that resonates with me. I switch my purse to my other shoulder, hoping to balance the weight. I’ve daydreamed about hurting the Gables for so long . . . but if I literally end up with their blood on my hands, how will that affect me? When it comes down to it, how far am I willing to go? Could I actually shoot Travis? Could I watch him die?

More people come into the elevator. I press myself against the wall to make room. The elevator slides down to another floor and then another. One of the men leans over and whispers something into the ear of a female colleague, who barks with laughter. The soft and loud sounds only serve to make the space feel tighter. Feeling claustrophobic, I think about the last time I laughed. It was with Lander, the brother of the man I’m thinking about killing.

The elevator reaches the lobby and everyone swarms out, moving in one direction like so many salmon.

I wipe my guilt-ridden hands on my skirt and follow them out, my purse adding weight to every step I take.

chapter seventeen

I catch a cab to Brooklyn rather than take the subway. No need to make this process longer or more dangerous than it needs to be. Still, I have the cabbie drop me off a block from my destination . . . just in case.