Title Page

Copyright Notice

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

Dedication

For Noa & Kate

THE INCIDENT

At the end of the day, a girl is dead. Maybe it’s winter. Maybe she had a black ski hat on. Maybe she was running and didn’t stop when he ordered her to. Maybe because she had headphones in, so she didn’t hear him shouting. Maybe she was late for something. Or maybe she was running simply because it was cold and dark and she was nervous to be alone on the street. It was dusky already at four-thirty p.m. When the lights flashed behind her, maybe it didn’t seem unusual. Maybe she never imagined it was about her. She was tall for her age, bundled in her warmest coat. She looked bigger than she was. Thicker. More like a man, an adult. But still thirteen years old.

DAY ONE:

THE INCIDENT

PEACH STREET

No one saw anything.

In the aftermath, the curb is dewy with blood. The man crouches by the girl’s body. They are both now smaller than they were.

“No, no, no, no, no.” He is on his knees. On his lips, a litany of sorrows.

He shoves away the iPod lying on the sidewalk. It jerks back, tied to the body by headphones. The sound of low talking blossoms into the silence.

He is supposed to press the walkie-talkie button, call again for backup.

Instead, he reaches around her puffy coat collar, presses fingers to her neck. “No, no, no, no, no.”

What he sees—it’s impossible. He prides himself on being a good shot. Prides himself on his instincts.

WITNESS

You don’t expect it. Ever. Walking home, like usual, the last thing you expect is to witness a murder. Shootings happen around this neighborhood, of course they do, but somehow you still never expect it. You worry about it, in a ghost way. A sliver of thought in a dusty back corner of the brain. A curl of gray matter that gets woken up once in a blue moon, given an electric shock to remind it never to fade.

You expect to cross the street, avoid the hoopla, like always. There’s no call to get involved. No one wants to be a witness. To put yourself out there like that, against some gangbanger you maybe went to high school with? Hells no. Not this cat.

The squad car, lights flashing, is at the other end of the block. A traffic stop, maybe. Or a domestic thing, checking up on some hipster’s noise complaint about the sound of fighting next door.