I can’t help laughing. “How do I look, exactly?”
A wince. “Say less, right? Literally. Thanks for not mugging me. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Likewise.”
The woman darts around me, more light lingering on her neon pink tank top. I turn to watch her go. Her shoes are practically beacons. They pause, nearly at the corner, and she faces me.
“Hot,” she yells.
“What?”
“I think you look hot. Bye.”
She disappears around the corner.
How’sthatfor an elevated heart rate? How’s that for a weird bit of magic in Cobble Hill?
If it weren’t for Judge Beaufort Hayes, I’d chase her. I bet she’d be into it.
I check the address of the nearest rowhouse in lieu of breaking into a run.
This one’s his.
Three stories. White. Real shining-castle shit. Lights blaze in the windows. The curtains are open on a picture window in front, looking in on a dining room that could be in a magazine.
A man sits at the dining table, a newspaper spread out in front of him. He’s reading while he eats.
That’s Judge Beaufort Hayes.
I watch him until he feels it. He lifts his head to squint out the window, and I turn on my heel and go.
For once, I don’t think of crime scenes. I think of all the ways I could get back at Judge Beaufort Hayes. All the ways I could make it even. All the ways I could make him understand what he did to me.
Tous.
Judge Beaufort Hayes is about to have his life fucked up, method to be determined. What I can say is that the strategy will be solid.
The man’s had years to pay for what he did. And now I’m coming to collect.
I get off the subway a few stops early and walk.
I think of revenge. I think of justice.
Most of all, I think of a neon-pink tank top and a pair of white sneakers and a gorgeous face that I’ll never see again.
I think of her all the way home.
* * *