CHAPTER 25

At the very same moment that Detectives Zach Jordan and Kylie MacDonald were listening to the Manchester twins bicker about whether the two apparitions they saw one All Hallows’ Eve were ghosts or albinos, the man who put a bullet in Shane Talbot’s chest slid his key into the top-of-the-line Schlage dead-bolt lock, turned it, and opened the door to his apartment.

“Vincent, is that you?” Priscilla called out from the kitchen.

Of course it was him. Ever since their sick, twisted fuck of a father took his last breath and went straight to hell last Christmas, it could only be him. But Priscilla always needed reassurance. Old wounds die hard.

“No, it’s Johnny Depp,” he sang out in his best Captain Jack Sparrow imitation. “And I’m here to ravish you.”

“I think you mean ‘ravage,’” she yelled back, “but in your case, I’ll tolerate bad grammar. Did you bring ice cream?”

“Does Nicolas Cage make lousy career choices?”

She laughed. She loved it when he put celebrity names in his jokes. “I’m making chicken paprikash with dumplings for dinner.”

He entered the kitchen and inhaled deeply. “It smells like Mom’s recipe, only without the constant ridicule and toxic criticism.”

They despised their parents—wished them dead from the time they were kids. Their mother had cooperated by smoking herself to death seven years ago, but their father, despite his self-destructive lifestyle, refused to self-destruct. Priscilla had decided he needed a little push, and she recruited her brother to do the pushing.

Vincent put the ice cream in the freezer, opened the fridge, and took out a beer. It was the last one. “What the fuck, Prissy? There was a full six-pack in here when I left for work this morning.”

“Father Niedenthal stopped in to see me. You know how he is—always trying to help me get back out there into the world.”

“Bullshit! That old lush only comes by so he can help himself. He knows I spring for the good stuff instead of that weasel piss they have at the rectory.”

He popped the top on his beer and took a long swallow.

“Sorry,” she said. “Did you find anything good at work today?”

“Yeah,” he snapped. “I found the keys to a brand-new Tesla, and ten thousand shares of Apple stock. It’s amazing what people will toss onto the subway tracks these days.”

“Look, I said I was sorry. Next time Father Niedenthal comes over, I’ll hide your beer. Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes. Can I show you something while you’re waiting?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She handed him her phone. On the screen was a woman in her twenties. Her face was battered, swollen, lacerated; her skin was black, blue, brown, and yellow where the blood vessels underneath had ruptured.

“Her boyfriend did it,” Priscilla said. “Her post was trending on HHNF. I messaged her to say how bad I feel for her.”

“Forget it,” Vincent said. “We can’t help her.”

“Why not? Look at this poor girl. Why can’t we help her?”

He took a swig of his beer. “I fucked up, Prissy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Yesterday at the Hunts Point Market.”

“You said it went well. I already crossed Redheaded Monster off my list.”

“Well, you’re going to have to uncross him, because it didn’t go as well as I thought.”

“But you said . . .”

“Damn it, Priscilla, I know what I said. But I was wrong. Which part of ‘I fucked up’ don’t you understand?”

“Okay. So un-fuck up, Vincent. Go back and get it right this time.”

“Fine.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Tomorrow, the next day—I have to plan these things so I can get away. Or do you want me to just shoot him and get caught by the cops?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Of course I don’t want you to get caught.”

He drained the last of his beer. “I’m going to the deli for a six-pack. Want anything?”

“Just for you to come back in a better mood.”

He left the apartment, double-locked the door, and banged on the elevator button with the heel of his hand.

“Vincent, how are you?” the woman with the laundry basket said when the door opened.

“I’m good, Mrs. Frangopoulos. How are you?”

“How am I? If Mrs. Berlusconi didn’t take my clothes out of the dryer while they’re still damp, I’ll be fine,” she said, pushing the lobby button for him. “And how’s Priscilla?”

“She’s fine.”

“I’m sure she’s fine, Vincent. I meant how is her . . .” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “. . . condition?”

“The same.”

“So she’s still . . .” Again the whisper. “. . . afraid to go outside?”

“She enjoys working from home,” Vincent said.

Mrs. Frangopoulos nodded knowingly. That was all the information she was going to get.

“And your father?” she asked. “How does he like Florida?”

“Loves it,” Vincent said. “I spoke to him yesterday. I don’t think he’s ever coming back to Astoria.” Not without the help of a cadaver dog and a couple of men with shovels.

His father was the first. The night Priscilla asked him to do it, he thought she was joking. But she wasn’t. “Do it when he’s passed out drunk, get rid of the body, and just tell the neighbors he moved to Florida. They won’t give a shit. Nobody likes him anyway.”

It was easier than he expected. And for that first month after Christmas, Prissy was the happiest he’d ever seen her. But then she found HHNF, the online forum for abused women, and it was as if she’d found her calling.

She would spend hours scouring the site, send sympathetic messages to the victims, and pick their brains for details until she finally could figure out who had to be eliminated so that these poor women could get on with their lives.

But of course, she couldn’t do the eliminating. She couldn’t do anything if it meant leaving the apartment. And just like that, Vincent’s role in his sister’s life evolved. Once, he had been her caretaker, her nursemaid, her errand boy. Now he was her vigilante by proxy.

The elevator reached the lobby, and he said goodbye to Mrs. Frangopoulos. Then he stepped outside into the clammy July night and the relative indifference of Thirty-First Avenue.

His phone chirped. It was a text from Priscilla.

Her name is Catherine. She teaches second grade.

Attached was the picture of the young woman whose boyfriend had brutally beaten her. Her eyes were desperate, defeated, pleading.

Vincent sighed and texted his sister back.

Find out what you can about the animal who did this. He’s on our list.