“Maybe we don’t.” My hand is too firm on the phone. I keep thinking about that security footage, Benjamin Sweeney and my woman, the way they looked at each other, like I look at Emily, a bond that can’t be broken no matter how twisted he is. “But we choose when we tell the truth and when we lie. She chose to lie.”
Mother tuts, sighs, and then, after making a noise like she’s about to say something, just hangs up the phone.
I grind my teeth as I turn to the early morning. New York flows past my window. I try not to see Hazel in the shadows between storefronts. I try not to imagine her sitting in front of her easel, paint flecking her cheeks like fresh freckles, her belly bulging under her apron with the life we made together.
I have work to do tonight.
Some jobs are tense, violent affai
