She crawled across the concrete.

Hurry, I should have said.

She slithered catlike toward a green Dumpster. Her hand slid under the heavy green steel.

When she had her suitcase, she started to sing. I should have told her to be quiet, because she was singing my name. Her voice was the only sound in the dark alley, where there were shadows moving against bricks.

She sat on the concrete, cross-legged, and turned the pages of a book. As if we were somewhere safe. As if we were in a library.

Come on, I wanted to say, but I sat down beside her. When I saw you in Ming’s, she said, I thought you were the kind of girl who—

I wanted to hear her, but I never did.

Because that’s when we heard his voice five feet away in the darkness. A voice without a body; a voice I’ll always hear, whether I make it to New York or rot in jail.

You owe me something, you little bitch. You owe me.

I grabbed her suitcase and started to run, but what I should have done was take her hand.

I thought she’d follow me, though she never had before.

I don’t owe you anything, she said to him.

He must have—I don’t know what he did.

I don’t even know you, she said, so fuck off! Get lost! Leave us alone! Hey—

Her voice went quiet, and I heard his moan. I ran to the end of the alley and once I left the narrow passage the wide street was empty and still as a tomb.

I just kept running and I swear on the Bible I never saw anything after that.

No, that’s not true.

I walked back to Justine and saw her, a black silhouette, standing over his body.

Dirk Wallace was slumped on the concrete, and she was standing over his body. She was standing over his body; he was slumped on the concrete.

The delicate look she’d always had in her eyes, that was gone. I turned away from her. Her eyes were dull and dark, as if I’d only dreamed them clear blue.

Hey, she said, hey, Sara. Let’s go to that party!

“I’ve got to go,” Edmundo says, “I can’t be late for the judge.”

Something else happened too, something else happened in the alley.

I did something too. I did something in the alley.

Maybe later I’ll find the time to write the story of my crime. But why bother when my words aren’t what they want? They want people of good character and dates and times and facts and blame.

I just write the word: Blame.

Blame it on Led Zeppelin. Invent a new crime and call it: inevitable. Blame it on The Lord of the Flies. Call it riot and revenge, ricochet and roulette.

Really, I write, I really don’t fucking care.

Edmundo just grabbed the page, and he never said a word. My confession might have been his keys or his watch, something to shove in his suitcase.