The recording was shaky for the first few seconds but then steadied, with the focus on the ground a few feet away. Duke could hear Regina breathing heavily, shuddering and gasping. He felt briefly sorry for her, remembering too well the terror blanketing that room, the smell of gunpowder and hot blood in the air. The filming blurred slightly, but he could make out movement under a neighboring table, a hand reaching down and sliding a gun out of an ankle holster. The focus cleared just as he heard two more loud pops, and then—

Oh my God. No.

Duke moved quickly, grabbing a wastebasket. He retched.

A body had fallen in between the tables. Mark. The side of his face was visible, covered in blood. The Bronx Bolt catcher fluttered his eyelashes, and then, nothing.

And just past his dead friend, clearly in focus under the table, were the shoes of the killer. Gold Nike high-tops. Custom made. Stitched on the side with black and white thread, in the Bronx Bolt team’s font: “The Duke.”

His shoes.

Chapter Twenty

Angel did not sleep. She tossed and turned and groaned into her pillow, awake when her alarm went off Friday morning. Her mind had been fuzzy for days, trying to picture how she could handle Dr. Collins, control her resentment, get what she needed from him, and still walk away with her dignity intact.

As she cooked Jose breakfast, the smell of frying eggs made her sick. Concentrating on her son was the only thing keeping her sane.

“You have your glove, mi chiquito?”

“I’m not a baby, Mama. I have everything in my bag.”

“I know, I know, you’re my big man.” She tousled his hair and sat down next to him at the tiny table. He was the only thing keeping her emotions in check, keeping her from becoming an ogre. “I just want to make sure you’re ready for tonight. You have an intermural game, right? Dress warm. I’ll bring more Claritin, or Gabriela will.”

He stopped eating. “Won’t you be there?”

“I’m gonna try. If I get done at the clinic early enough, I should be able to make it.”

His dark brown eyes welled with tears. “I really want you to be there.”

She pulled him into her lap and gave him a long cuddle. “Not as much as I want to be there. I’ll make it, I promise.” Oh Lord, why did I say that?

She got Jose off to school and then took a quick shower, crying into the hot stream hitting her face. After drying off, she picked up her deodorant, considered it for a second, and then dropped it into a drawer, next to her perfume. I refuse to smell good for that bastard. I shouldn’t have showered.