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”“What you said before.” He head turned back toward Scott. The glass door closed with a snap, ringing a little bell. He snarled up, narrowed his eyes, offended by the interruption. From here, the skyline of Manhattan, especially at night, lay spread out like diamonds on black velvet. They’d had a loft on Charles Street down in the Village. Now, looking at this photograph, she wondered about the idiocy of her priorities. ” Grace asked.“Poorly.”“Sorry.”“Fifth-date syndrome.”Cora was a divorcee, a little too sexy for the nervous, ever-protective “ladies who lunch.” Clad in a low-cut, leopard-print blouse with spandex pants and pink pumps, Cora most assuredly did not fit in with the stream of khakis and loose sweaters. Adult suburbia can be a lot like high school.“What’s fifth-date syndrome? See—and don’t ask me why—but on the fifth date, the guys always raise the subject ... ”“That I usually enjoy them, especially when the two men start French-kissing.”Grace laughed and they both got out of the car. After more than a decade, she shouldn’t be self-conscious about it anymore, but Grace still hated for people to see the limp. When the bell rang, the kids burst out as if they’d been fired from a cannon. Did he learn math, English, science, arts and crafts? Were the kids drugged to forget or sworn to secrecy? It was not until after she got home and gave Max his Go-GURT snack—think yogurt in a toothpaste-like squeeze tube—that Grace had the chance to take a look at the rest of the photographs. Grace did not move, but she felt an old fluttering in her belly. Grace moved into the spare bedroom that had become her makeshift studio. Grace put it down on the table to take a closer look. They had met thirteen years ago on a beach in the Côte d’Azur in southern France. There were more hayrides, more apples, more arms raised in mid-pick.
Yeah, funny stuff.“We have to get together,” the woman said, winding down. I think they’d get along.”“Definitely.”Grace took advantage of the pause to wave good-bye, pull open the door, and disappear inside the Photomat. Emma, her third grader, had convinced Jack to buy an eight-foot blowup Homer-Simpson-as-Frankenstein balloon. Her children liked The Simpsons, which meant that maybe, despite their best efforts, she and Jack were raising them right. There was always an excitement with a newly developed roll of film, an opening-a-gift expectation, a hurry-to-the-mailbox-even-though-it’s- always-bills rush that digital photography, for all its conveniences, could never duplicate. As her Saab climbed up Heights Road, she took a small detour so that she could pass the town’s lookout. Until four years ago, that wonderful island had been their home. “The husband and two kids have really cramped my style.”“Pity. of a ménage à trois.”“Please tell me you’re joking.”“I joke with you not. Like it’s peace in the Middle East.”“What do you say? A classic case of the epidemic known as Elementary-School Alzheimer’s. I need to talk to you about something.” The message beeped again. She debated calling him back and decided for the time being against it. Or at least, one young child.”“What does that have to do with anything?
His fingerprints had not popped up in the NCIC computer banks. attorney assigned to you.”“This has nothing to do with her.”“And it does with me? “What I’m about to tell you,” he said, “will change your entire life.”Part of Scott wanted to wiggle his fingers in Scanlon’s face and say, “Ooooo.” He was used to the captured criminal mindset—their serpentine maneuverings, their quest for an edge, their search for a way out, their overblown sense of importance. She touched one of the beefy guards on the shoulder and gestured for them to leave. Tell me, does rule two have anything to do with not putting out until the third date? ”Scott shrugged as if the answer was obvious.“You don’t respect my rules? “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but the men I’ve killed were scum. His books are published in forty-three languages around the globe and have been number one bestsellers in more than a dozen countries. This was strange for a large variety of reasons, but here were two: one, a killer should not be in a position to make demands; two, Scott had never met or even heard of Monte Scanlon. “Lots of them.”“I was what is commonly called a hit man. The winner of the Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony Awards, he lives in New Jersey. The windowless room of thundercloud gray was awkward and still, stuck in that the lull when the music first starts and neither stranger is sure how to begin the dance. The killer, decked out in prison-issue orange, simply stared. I was”—Scanlon paused—“an assassin for hire.”“On cases that don’t involve me.”“True.”Scott’s morning had started off normal enough. That had been, what, an hour, an hour and a half ago? Capezio's modern "Foot Undeez" offer the barely there look that is breathable and comfortable.The combination of the stretch mesh fabric with suede sole patches molds and moves with the foot.
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But even if it could, even if you could find out who sent it, where would it lead you? ”Scott did not respond.“Her name was Geri, am I right? I was told exactly what time ‘Jerry’”—Scanlon made quote marks with his fingers—“would be home.”Scott’s own voice seemed to come from very far away. There are tears in your life, deep knife wounds that slash through your flesh. She was about to enter the photo developing shop when she heard a somewhat familiar voice. Digital technology is a snap.” The woman raised her hand and actually snapped, just in case Grace didn’t know what the word meant. She wondered about the long-term effects of working in such an environment and decided the short-term ones were annoying enough. She painted in her home studio while scoffing at her suburban counterparts and their SUVs and corduroy pants and toddler-referenced dialogues. Grace parked behind the school with the other mothers. It was, of course, the modern era, post-feminist America, and yet, of the roughly eighty parents waiting for their charges, only two were male. Cora Lindley, her best friend in town, signaled for her to unlock the door. The rest of the pack, uncharitable as this might sound, was scenery. When Grace saw her son—one sneaker lace untied, his Yu- Gi-Oh! Grace strapped him into the booster seat and asked him how his day was. She would look at the streets, the trees, the people and imagine the type of brush she would use, the stroke, the mix of colors, the differing lights and casts of shadows. off somehow—saturated, sun- faded, lacking the vibrancy one would expect in this day and age. There were four people—no, wait, one more in the corner—five people in the photograph. She matriculated at the University of Paris, studying art in earnest. He was reaching so high, his shirt had moved up enough to show his belly.