They had reached the bottom of the stairs, both of them panting lightly.

“It’s because of his damn book,” D.D. said. “This all started when Charlie decided to write an instant bestseller in order to support his mother. Except . . .” She touched her left shoulder gingerly, as a new idea suddenly occurred to her. “Holy shit, Phil, we are Charlie’s novel! He’s not writing about his cousin; that’s yesterday’s news, and what have the murderabilia websites taught us about old crimes? They don’t pay nearly as well as nationally recognized murderers hot off the press. Hence, Charlie created the greatest New England predator since Harry Day: the Rose Killer. Guaranteed to terrify a population, capture major media attention and, one day soon, earn him that seven-figure advance for an insider’s account of the murderer who slaughtered his own mom. Charlie isn’t writing about Donnie and the old neighborhood anymore. He’s writing about us.”

Chapter 36

WE SHOULD’VE RETURNED to the safety of my condo, but we didn’t. No one seemed to recognize Shana, and as darkness fell, we felt safer and safer with her new guise. On second thought, Shana wanted to try real pizza. I took her to the best dive I knew, where you could buy a slice the size of a football and the cheese hung down in gooey strings. At first, the kid behind the register was too shell-shocked by my mangled face to respond to our order. He stared at me, mouth slightly ajar.

Shana leaned in. She gave the kid a single hard look. He yelped slightly, rubbing his arms as if to ward off a chill, then jumped to it. He gave us both slices for free.

We ate them walking along the sidewalk, smearing pizza grease across our faces and feeling smug, as if we’d gotten away with something.

Shana declared it the best fucking pizza she’d ever had. She remembered other pies, from before. In prison, she often took out each memory of her life before incarceration, replaying each moment in her head like an old family video. Maybe that was why she forgot nothing. She had turned memory into an art form, serving as her own family album.

The hour passed five, daily commuters rushing to catch buses, subways, taxis, everyone bundled up against the bitter chill.

We steeled our shoulders against the evening’s bite and soldiered on, not speaking, because that would make all of this too real and subject to doubts and anxiety and hesitation. Better to just be. Better, certainly, not to think of the hours ahead.

Can you pack a lifetime into a single afternoon? Remake a family, reforge old bonds?