I light candles, soak in a lush, soapy bath, and change into my favorite satin chemise and robe. Salt and Pepa still shadow my every step. They’re accustomed to my evening routine—lots of spa-like pampering and my guiltiest pleasure: trashy reality TV.
I dim the ceiling lights and settle on my sectional sofa. Pepa parks herself on the cushion beside me. Salt wanders off to nip at one of his trinket toys. I sip from the glass of wine I’ve poured and flip on the TV toHousewives of South Valley.
Thisis how I like spending my evenings. Something simple. Something as safe and boring as a reality tv show and some wine.
I don’t need love or romantic relationships. I don’t need men. Hard to believe less than two hours ago, I was a breathless mess over Salvatore Mancino.
For the last time. He’s not going to catch me slipping again.
I inhale my next mouthful of wine and erase Salvatore from memory. He doesn’t get to bulldoze his way into my life and turn it upside down. He and his friendly warnings can go straight to hell.
The next hour passes with me sipping wine, growing tipsy, and cracking up over theHousewives of South Valleyepisode. Once it ends, I flip off the TV and call it a night. Salt has retreated to his bed while Pepa has made a bed out of my lap. I stroke her smoky gray fur and then polish off the last of my wine.
In the silence, a loud thump sounds from down the hall. My heart skips a beat, and my gaze cuts over in that direction. It sounds almost like something has been knocked over. I get up off the sectional, clutching my wine glass as I go investigate.
Nothing out of the ordinary. The entrance hall is exactly how I left it—a tall cane plant and built-in shelf wall with neat, tasteful knickknacks. My briefcase sits by the door where I left it earlier. I check the locks, flick off the light, and head for my bedroom.
The noise must’ve been another resident in the hallway outside. Even the fact that I considered otherwise leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth.
Salvatore Mancino’s words have gotten stuck in my head. But it doesn’t matter if his thinly veiled threat is true or false. Dad wasn’t the type of DA to live his life in fear, and I damn sure won’t be either.
* * *
The next morning, Brenda and I grab coffee on our work commute. It’s been a ritual of ours since we realized Brenda rides the same line as I do into work. We board the subway car as she tells me about a guy she met at a bar. She might be the only woman I know with worse dating luck than me. I half-listen, using the moment to scroll through my email on my iPhone.
“Chet doesn’t seem like the relationship type... but he texted me last night asking to come over. Do you think that means anything?”
“I think it means he wants to get laid.”
“Ugh, really? When will I find a serious guy? Dating in the twenty-first century is like torture.” She bumps her shoulder with mine. “We need to fix you up with someone. Maybe Chadwick. He’s tall and handsome. You’re stylish and beautiful. He’s an ADA in Easton. You’re basically guaranteed to be the DA of Northam—”
“How many times do I need to point out the election isn’t until next year—did you just call me stylish and beautiful?”
“Is that all you got out of what I said? What about Chadwick?”
“What about him?”
We share a laugh as the subway slows to another stop. Some of the passengers crowded inside the car rush to get off while several more push to get on. It’s like watching a live game of Tetris as they maneuver to fit themselves anywhere that’s open, clutching their to-go coffees and belongings.
Most public figures refrain from using the public transportation in Northam due to deterioration and rising crime. Dad hates that I refuse to hire a private driver. If it was too dangerous for him to take the subway as DA ten years ago, it’s too dangerous for his only daughter to do so today.
But I like riding it to and from city hall. It makes me feel like a part of the community I seek to protect.
I’ve neverfeltthreatened. Usually there’s a questionable person or two on my car or in the subway terminal, but no one’s ever targeted me because of who I am and my position as ADA. It’s possible I’ve just been lucky.
Brenda’s had her purse snatched twice in the past.
We’re two stops away from where we get off when a man with a shabby coat and grizzled beard steps on and heads for the space across from us.
Brenda squeezes herself against me and clutches her briefcase tighter on her lap. My gaze flits from her to the man. He’s already looking at us, his stare heavy and unblinking.
An odd flutter ripples in my stomach, like I’m about to lose my footing. The subway car’s doors roll closed and we’re jostling forward again, deeper down the dark underground tunnel.
The way the man’s staring, there’s recognition in his hard face. He knows who we are—whoIam.
I tear my gaze from his and pretend to focus on a nearby poster advertising Slice of Italia, a local pizza chain.
So maybe people on the subwaydorecognize me. But even if they do, no one’s ever tried anything. I’ve never felt unsafe.