Rachel settled into her seat on the private jet and skimmed Jason Umlaut’s reports--mostly bureaucratic jargon about her quasi-employment by the Special Operations Command of the DHS. But she set them aside after a few hours when elusive, formless thoughts about her father kept distracting her.

Relief loomed large. She hadn't killed him. She hadn't done the unthinkable, the unforgivable. That loosened the barbed knot she'd carried inside her stomach for years.

But she also hadn't stopped him. The next time he hurt someone, the next time he killed someone, she was responsible. He'd spent years scraping every last trace of mercy from his heart. There was nothing he wouldn't do. And she hadn't stopped him. She'd missed her chance. That was more unforgivable than murder.

Caught in a spiral of dark memory, Rachel nodded off to sleep.

She woke forty minutes before scheduled descent and showered and changed into the gray pants and blue shirt and tailored jacket from the bag. The clothes fit better than anything she’d ever bought for herself. Not that she'd done any shopping in the last few years, but even so. It was like they'd been tailored for her. Maybe Umlaut really did know his job.

She slipped the Maglite, notepad, wallet, and Glock magazines into a new version of her old messenger bag. She eyed the watch and the cellphone--both brand new--then took them, too. Started back into the cabin, then paused and opened the bag and found lip gloss. Of course Jason Umlaut had remembered lip gloss. She applied a little and fluffed her hair, maybe feeling a little insecure.

She looked at the Glock for a long time. The last time she'd touched a gun, her world had ended. Nightmares had haunted her for years, and she'd felt the tingle in her palm every day, smelled the burn. Every time she'd turned a corner, she'd found herself looking down at her father's body and realizing new what she'd done.

She didn't want to touch a gun, not ever again. But she was Boone's daughter: she did what was necessary. She couldn't walk into a fight against him--or his 'crew', as the senator called them--unarmed. Not if she wanted to walk away.

After a long time, she field stripped the Glock. The motions came easily, her father's voice in her head talking her though each step. Then she holstered the unloaded weapon and sat there for a time, trying to figure out exactly how she felt.

She didn't know. That wasn't her strength, knowing how she felt.

She went to the front of the cabin and told Umlaut, "You folded my underwear."

His cheeks pinked. "I--the Senator asked me to pack for you, I didn’t know … I wasn’t sure …"

"And you chose earrings," she said, opening her hand to show him.

"Are they okay?"

"My favorite pair. They belonged to my mother."

"I got them from your grandmother. They’re what you wore in most pictures." At her expression, he explained. "I checked the file photos."

"With a magnifying glass? Well, good job. Except my bra's a little tight."

He blushed redder. "Sorry, I, um--I …"

"I'm joking," she said. "The bra's fine. You are good."

Then they landed in New Park.

I blinked into the sunlight as we merged onto the Cross Bronx Expressway, with Shandra behind the wheel. We needed to find Dane Street, but Dane Street didn’t exist.

"What we need," Shandra said, giving me a meaningful look, "is someone who knows the city."

I said, "Yeah."

"Someone who lives here."

"Yeah."

"Someone we trust."

"Yeah."

"And who knows us," she said. "Who knows that when I see things, I seethem."

"Yeah."

"Don’t make me twist your arm," she said.

"Oh, shut up."

"So what’s her address?"

I rattled off Maddie’s address.

"Avenue B?" Shandra asked. "Where’s that?"

"East of First Avenue."

She nodded and drove. Triboro Bridge. FDR Drive. Then she said, "You never even sent her an email?"

"She asked me not to. She wanted a clean break."

"Yet you memorized her address."

"Her phone number, too," I admitted, though of course Shandra had already seen through all my secrets. "Is that romantic or creepy?"

"You know what Ithink," she said.

Actually, I didn’t, but her tone shut down the conversation and we drove in silence.

The city rose around us, glass and brick and sky. A thousand people on every sidewalk, a thousand shops on every street. Windows glinted in the sun, the scent of exhaust and deep fryers crept into the Dodge. A taxi shot past, and the thump of bass sounded from somewhere.

We circled a few blocks until we found a parking garage. Then we realized we couldn’t afford to pay. So we double-parked and Shandra hunched over the steering wheel, terrified of the street, of eight million damaged psyches battering hers.

"Maybe I should carry you," I said.

Her teeth started chattering. "Yeah, th-that’s a subtle way to abandon our s-stolen car."

"Or you could stay here."

"Inside the stolen car." She reached for the handle with an unsteady hand. "I’ll be okay."

We left the car running with the key in the ignition, our backwoods theory being that every car in Manattan was twenty seconds away from being stolen. We headed across the bustling street, down the crowded sidewalk, and Shandra started twitching and making little whimpering noises.

I took her elbow, and for once she didn’t pull away. Maybe comforted by my old, familiar shortcomings instead of the terrifying new ones battering at her psyche. The color drained from her face and we found Maddie's address over a battered green door tucked between a dry cleaner and a stationary store.

I looked at the buzzers until I found M. Daugherty.

"Okay," I said, and kept looking at the buzzer.

"Press the damn b-button," Shandra said. "You don’t need to bring her a d-dozen roses."

So I buzzed. Waited ten seconds and buzzed again.

The speaker cracked. "Yeah?" Maddie's voice said.

I managed to say, "It’s me."

"Emilio?"

I didn’t meet Shandra’s gaze. "Lark. And Shandra."

"Lark?"

"Yeah."

Nothing happened.

"Maddie?" I said.

"Shandra can’t come inside," she said.

"Jesus, Maddie, she’s having a fucking seizure."

"Some bad things went down in here before I moved in," Maddie said. "She’ll do worse inside. Let me think … There’s an eyeglass shop on 4th, like an optometrist boutique."

"If we needed glasses, that'd be--"

"Shandra will be okay there! Everything’s brand new. I’ll meet you in ten."

The crackling stopped. I’m not sure what I’d expected, but I guess I’d taken for granted that Maddie would invite me in.

"I’m f-fine," Shandra stammered, seeing my expression. "Let’s go."

Halfway down the block, her eyes fluttered closed and she stumbled, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. I pulled her close like we were a couple and I couldn't keep my hands off her.

"You’re doing great," I murmured. "We're almost there, only a little farther. Once we find Dewitt--"

"W-what are they doing to him?" she asked, lowering her head. "Is he s-strapped to a table? With n-needles in his veins and knives c-cutting--"

"Shandra! Listen to me. Listen to me. I will stop them."

"When they’re done with him," she said, from behind the veil of her hair, "they’ll do the same to you."

I pressed her palm to my chest, to feel the orb through my clothes. "They don’t have these."

"They have worse," she said, her trembling getting worse.

Traffic rumbled past. Strangers surrounded us, more people every twenty feet than lived on the entire island. Smells from my youth surrounded me; subway vapor with a hint of sweetness from a nearby bakery. Perfume and engine oil.

In the middle of the next block, we found the eyeglass boutique under a sign reading: IIII.

"It's called Four?" I asked.

"Four I’s," Shandra told me.

I laughed in surprise. "Oh! Four eyes!"

"You’re such a dork," she said, and followed me through the door.

We stepped into a stylish shop where plush couches sat in recessed nooks. An elegant saleswoman drifted toward us. "You must be Shandra," she said. "Feeling better now?"

Shandra stared at her, eyes wide and blank.

"Your sister called," the saleswoman told me. "She said your girlfriend gets a little agoraphobic."

"My sister called?"

"She lives around the corner? Madeline?"

"Right, yeah, I didn't know she'd call ahead. Sorry. Thanks."

The elegant woman smiled at Shandra. "Would you like a glass of water?"

Shandra shook her head briefly.

"Can she sit down somewhere?" I asked.

The saleswoman gestured to one of the nooks. Shandra went stiffly across the shop, and the saleswoman said, "That must be your sister now."

When I turned, she was pushing through the doorway, a half-smile on her face. And everything that had happened since she left the Rock dwindled into a single point and--ping--disappeared.

Maddie.

How do you describe someone you love? You can't, not really. Because you don't see them with your eyes, you feel them with your heart. But I'll try: Maddie looked like a backwoods Tinkerbell lost in the big city, half-fairy and half-lumberjack.

She’d cut her long chestnut hair short and dyed it blonde with crimson streaks. The tattoo at the hollow of her neck was new, too: a coiled clockwork insect. The nose ring I’d seen before--I still cringed at the memory of shoving a needle through her ice-numbed nostril.

Her eyes were the same, and I fell into them.

"Hey," she said. "How is she?"

From a distance, I said, "Not great."

"Well, she’s tough."

"No," I said, "that’s you."

She laughed a throaty laugh and put her palm on my chest. She wore a thick silver ring with a tribal design on her thumb. Her long curious fingers touched two of the orbs through my shirt. I don’t think I shivered.

"Someone took Dewey," I told her.

"Yeah, Trish got the sat phone working, she called a minute after you buzzed. Why is Shandra here?"

I gave her the ten-second summary. "So we’re looking for Dane Street."

"Never heard of it."

"Neither has the map."

"Okay. Give me a second."

She drew the saleswoman aside and gave her something, maybe cash, and they spoke for a minute.

Then Maddie put her hand on my arm. "Let’s go."

"Where?"

"My place."

"We tried that, you didn’t let us in."

"Shandra can’t come. The building used to be a crack den, she’d fall apart."

"I’m not going to leave her, Maddie."

"She’ll be fine. My friend’s coming with his van."

"His van?"

"Brand new, and nobody died in the back."

Without raising her head, Shandra told me, "If you lose Dewitt because of me, I’ll never forgive you, Lark. I'll never forgive either of us. Find him."

"Find him where?" I asked. "You’re the only one who knows."

"I don’t. I saw Dane Street and that office, a logo like the sun with a, a spear shoved through. That’s all I know, that’s all I--" She lowered her head. "I can’t think, just go. Go."