She walked Jose to school, then hopped the bus to Bronx Community College, arriving just as her morning lecture started. She quietly slid into a back row and kept her hat on, not making eye contact with anyone. After an hour of scribbling notes and realizing exactly how far behind she was and how much she didn’t know, she headed outside with the rest of the class.

“Angel, I saw you on the—”

She spun around to cut off Theresa, who was bouncing along excitedly behind her. “Shh! I don’t want anyone to know. As a matter of fact, I don’t want to talk about it. It was a weird, onetime thing.”

The other nursing student shrugged good-naturedly. “Fine. I’d be a little more excited about it, but whatever. Do you want to meet with the study group at Rue la Rue’s Café?” Her eyes were wide and expectant, though Angel had not attended one study session with the group. Always working or with Jose.

“I can’t today, but thank you for asking.” She was relieved that Theresa didn’t press her about Duke.

Angel returned a wave as the other student sauntered away. Then she suddenly flushed with a rush of jealousy so strong she almost went to her knees. The study group was a bunch of normal twenty-year-old college students, able to spend the day in a café and update their social media while scarfing down pizza and quizzing each other on Latin terms, and then stay up until two in the morning playing beer pong and hooking up with Tinder dates.

Angel took the bus back home. She was going to study, but she also had to take care of family errands. She had one stop to make first.

The Peacock was closed in the morning, but there were cars in the parking lot, including Frank’s orange Viper. Time to pull up my big girl panties. The front doors were unlocked. Entering the bar in the daytime was always such an odd experience. The air was clear. The natural light coming in through high windows revealed beautiful marble tables and cedar-paneled walls that, in the candlelight and bar lights, looked totally different.

She waited by the bar for a minute, absorbing the sounds. She didn’t hear any sex screams, only the ice machine cranking out rocks and the heaters warming up the cement floors.

Voices came from the kitchen in the back. Pushing through swinging doors, she walked into a wide-open room with smoking grills and delicious smells. The famous farm-to-table chef, a James Beard Award winner from Portland, refused to talk to any of the help but knew the animals he cooked by name. Angel could see him hand-grinding spices while barking at three or four minions who were massaging kale and caressing lamb shanks. At a side table sat the club owner, sampling an array of dishes.