Laura led the collie down the narrow stairs and into the bright sunshine on Clifford Street, trying to put the text message out of her mind.
She continued to the crosswalk and looked in both directions. To her left was a long, littered street populated by open-air drug peddlers, and suburban users cruising for a fix. To her right was a tree-lined street with brick row houses, shrubs, and the occasional statue of the Virgin Mary. She turned right and headed to Carol Gardens—a safe, secure neighborhood a few blocks away.
This old Italian neighborhood seemed a million miles from the hardscrabble Red Hook and the gentrified cityscape of Brooklyn Heights. Gone were the tatted-up gang-bangers, dolled-up hookers, and destitute down-and-outers. Gone were the too-cool hipsters, trendy art galleries, and boutiques. In their place were older women in cotton dresses, aged men in baggy pants, and teenage couples, walking hand-in-hand. Sweet aromas wafted from the Napoli Restaurant with its classic biscotti, Napoleons, and ricotta cheesecakes gleaming in the glass display window.
The scent made her feel better. She promised herself to put the threatening message aside for now; she wanted to enjoy the beautiful fall day with her dog.
Leading Tripod farther up the street, she forced herself to pass by Napolitano Pizza. Leaving the scent of simmering tomato sauce behind her, she stopped in her tracks at the window display of Giovani’s Wedding Supply. She gazed through the glass at a flowing, hand-beaded bridal gown that looked like a piece of art. The exquisite fabric was tailored and stitched to perfection. The cut was low and styled to hug feminine curves. The dress exploded at the waist in a shimmering, white cyclone of graceful movement. She admired it for a long moment. How would I look in that?
Her phone buzzed. Nick fucking Drake. She let it go to voicemail.
Then, the real question forced itself back into her brain. Who sent that text?
Their route took Laura and Tripod to the riverfront promenade back in Brooklyn Heights. The morning sun backlit the towers of Manhattan, and roller-skaters rocketed down the walkway along the East River. “Come on, Tripod,” she called, tugging his leash. “Let’s get you to the dog park.”
Tripod hopped into the lead and pulled on the leash, dragging Laura forward. He needed that romp and wasn’t going to stop pulling until he got it. The dog was frantic by the time the Brooklyn Heights Dog Park came into sniffing range.