We stood on the heights of Upper Manhattan, at the foot of a lighthouse whose double beam swept in a slow circle, throwing light across the river. Below me were two cities: one decked out in gaudy white, the other far more beautiful in muted orange. The happy people I had heard talking outside the hearse were not Eastsiders stepped out of their crowded tenements to escape the heat, but citizens of the Upper West, who stared down the new moon without fear, shielded by the glow of Van Alen’s night-fires, which burned at every intersection from here to the Borderline. The smoke was heavy above Manhattan.

My kidnapper charged again, but not in a straight line. He was disoriented, and he would have missed me by two feet if I hadn’t stuck my arm out to stop him. His throat crashed into it, and his legs went out from under him.

“You awful girl,” he rasped. “You trying to kill me?”

“I’d be within my rights. If you knew how to swing an ax, I’d have been in real trouble this afternoon.”

“Of course I know how to swing an ax. I missed on purpose.”

“You lie.”

“I let you escape.”

“Then why,” I said, pressing my foot down on his throat, “did you bring me here?”

“To see Van Alen. The boss. He needs to hear what you have to say. I don’t want to see another war.”

“I would have accepted an invitation, you know. I thought I’d been buried alive!”

“Mrs. Greene wouldn’t have stood for it. If she’d seen you, it would have meant your neck.”

I kicked his ribs a few times—just enough to hear him say he was sorry—and then I helped him up. He was blushing again and could not meet my eye.

“What’s your right name, Ugly?” I said.

“Furio La Rocca.”

“Ugly suits you better. Where’s my purse?”

“You don’t need it.”

“A woman has a right to freshen up after she’s been brought back from the dead.”

My bag was in the trunk of the hearse, beside the coffin, snuggled up alongside his ax. He handed it over with a look like he wanted to say something but knew better. The weight of the bag told me the gun was still inside.

He opened the door to the lighthouse, and I climbed alone. The steps were iron, steep, and far too numerous. I counted the steps, damning each one, and yearned for a tiny mystery. If I survived this suicidal nonsense, I promised myself, I would find the most insignificant case the Westside had to offer. No politics, no blood, no coffins, no shadows. Somewhere below Fourteenth Street, there must be some little girl who’s lost her cat. Her I could save.