Only in the Westside could a woman with blood in her hair stroll down the sidewalk on a weekday afternoon, wearing nothing but a slip and hearing only the chattering of a few far-off birds. There were days when the echoes of my footsteps were the most peaceful noise in the world. Today, they sounded like someone coming up behind me. Fear rose in my throat and stayed there until I got home.

As the front door creaked shut, I tugged off my gloves and struggled to rip my boots from my feet. I hurled my filthy slip down the hallway, to enjoy the cavelike air in stark naked splendor. I would fall asleep on the cool wood floor, and on waking, the affair of the murdered captain would be behind me. I closed my eyes and saw his head explode. Sleep danced out of my grasp as my mind circled a few simple, unanswerable questions. They came not in my voice, but in my father’s.

“Why kill a man, then blow him up, Gilda?

“What was in that crate?

“Why the bloody fist?

“Where did the shot come from, Gilda? Who fired it? How the hell did those bastards find a working gun? And honestly, what could have happened to the Fourth Precinct’s door?”

My eyes popped open. Somewhere in the kitchen, it occurred to me, there should be whiskey. The fruit flies were thick above the sink, and the counters were cluttered with dirty jars and rotting jam—the results of an ill-fated canning experiment undertaken in a fit of domesticity. Behind a cracked jar of molding apricot preserves, I found a half-full bottle of Barbarossa’s imitation rye.

I poured one drink, and another, putting the bottle back when it became clear the whiskey wouldn’t stop the questions circling my head. A shooting murder on the Westside. It was a black miracle.

It was also not my concern.

As if trying to will that true, I wrapped myself in a blanket and leaned back onto the parlor floor. A few seconds later, it’s midsummer at the Polo Grounds. A holiday doubleheader, already the third inning, and I’m lost in the concourses. The crowd roars, but I can’t tell why. I run down a tunnel, the ceiling vibrating from the pounding of feet above my head, and emerge onto the field.

It’s silent. The sky is black. The field is white. The players are translucent, ghostly. The seats are filled with silhouettes. The crowd stares, mouths open, their eyes empty sockets that burn with white fire.

“Goddamn it, you stubborn little girl,” came the oil-slick voice of Lieutenant Thorne. “Open this door.”

I rolled sideways, blanket tangling around my hips, and pressed myself underneath the windowsill. Metal rapped on the glass above my head.

“You’re not fooling me. Come on out and talk.”