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EVERY time Lacey took her office trash can to the dumpster, she thought about her father and the fateful night he had died. They had a cleaning service for the club, but because of the money she used to launder for Tony, Lacey had made her office off-limits and gotten into the habit of cleaning it up herself, including making visits to the dumpster that sat behind the club whenever her office trashcan got full.
And as usual, while dumping her small metal trashcan the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, she got hit with a memory, this time of showing up bloodied and bruised at the apartment she used to share with her father after she shot Hector Jr. She’d had to knock on the door because it had taken all the strength she had just to get to West Trenton on the train and then make the two mile
