TWENTY-TWO

Mallory stopped at the drive-through ATM and frowned when she read the OUT OF ORDER sign. She parked in the first space she came to; taking her wallet and her keys, she locked the car and went to the walk-up inside the bank lobby. She took out the fifty dollars she felt she owed Sally and returned to her car. She tucked the bills into the top of her bag, which was sitting on the seat where she’d left it. As she drove away, she turned on the radio, smiling when she realized that the song playing was one of her all-time favorites, one that brought back one of her best childhood memories.

She’d danced to the song—Journey’s “Lights”—in her ballet recital when she was thirteen years old. She’d loved that dance, loved the costume—pink tulle with a fluffy skirt, the girliest thing she’d ever worn. To this day, she could remember every step. Every time she heard the words, she was thirteen again and feeling pretty for the first time in her life. Her dance instructor had wanted all the girls who had long hair to wear it in a French braid, but having had short hair all her life and having given birth to only boys, Mallory’s aunt hadn’t a clue how to construct such a thing.

Fortunately, Mallory’s friend Kelly’s mother was a hairdresser, and had offered to fix up both girls before the performance. Mrs. Allen had looped Mallory’s hair into a perfect braid and had touched her cheeks with pale pink blush. When she’d looked into the mirror, she’d barely recognized herself. That image—the reflection she’d seen that day—had never really left her. It had been one of the happiest days in an otherwise forgettable childhood.

Mallory turned onto Academy Street, wondering what had happened to her old friend, and thinking that if there was one person from her past she’d want to see again, it would be Kelly Allen.

She parked across the street from the house Sally shared with three other girls, the fourth one in from the corner in a straight line of identical row houses. She figured if she were to find Sally at home, it would be in early afternoon, before she set out for working the streets. Morning might have been too early; later in the day she’d have missed her. Mallory got out of her car and walked across the street. From a block away, she could hear children at recess playing in the East Conroy Elementary school yard. She rang the doorbell and waited. When no one answered, it occurred to her that she probably should have called first, so she took her phone from her bag. The screen alerted her to having missed two calls, and she’d just started to check those numbers when the door opened.

“Hey, it’s my pal Mal.” Sally smiled and stepped outside in bare feet and cutoff jeans. “What are you doing here?”

“I felt bad about costing you the other night,” Mallory said, thinking how young and pretty Sally looked, with her red hair toned down just a bit and pulled back in a ponytail, her face clean of makeup. She reached into her bag and took out the bills she’d gotten from the ATM. “I wanted to make it up to you.”

“You don’t have to do that. It was early, there wasn’t much going on anyway,” Sally told her. “Besides, I didn’t give you much.”

“You still lost some work time.” Mallory folded the bills into Sally’s hand.

“Really, Detective, I …” Sally looked past Mallory, a curious expression on her face.

Mallory turned toward the street just as a brown sedan with dark-tinted windows pulled up. Later, Mallory would recall that at that second, everything seemed to move in slow motion: the car window rolling down, the burst of fire, the explosion of red that rose into the air in liquid streams and solid splinters as Sally shattered into a million pieces before her eyes.

She’d recall reaching behind her into her waistband at the same time she’d heard the sound of return gunfire, and she’d remember being surprised, because she’d tried but hadn’t been able to draw her handgun, her fingers unexpectedly slippery with what she would later realize was Sally’s blood. She’d know that she’d slumped to the ground, cradling Sally, and that when the shooting stopped, she’d looked up to find Charlie leaning over her, his phone in one hand as he called for backup, his other hand wiping something wet and sticky from her face.

At some point, Joe had shown up, and she’d heard him tell Charlie to take her out of there, to get her home, and Charlie’s quiet words: “I’ll take care of her.…”