Erin Peterson lived in a Minneapolis neighborhood called Prospect Park that had somehow managed to find its way onto the National Register of Historic Places. The houses were built very close together, mostly in the Queen Anne and Colonial Revival styles along narrow, winding streets barely wide enough for two cars to pass. It was easy to get lost, which I did, turning right when I should have turned left. Yet I was able to correct myself by using the Prospect Park Water Tower, often called the Witch’s Hat because of its fanciful green ceramic roof, for reference. Some say it was the inspiration for the Bob Dylan song “All Along the Watchtower” because it was clearly visible from Dylan’s former home in Dinkytown on the north side of the University of Minnesota campus.
Parking was an issue, as it nearly always was, especially on a Saturday afternoon, and the closest empty spot I could find was six houses past Erin’s on the opposite side of the street. There were plenty of people moving through the neighborhood, some riding bikes, some walking dogs, and some walking children. Erin’s 1920s house was perched on a low hill. I climbed the concrete steps to her tiny porch and rang the bell. There was a spyhole built into the front door, and a shadow passed over it before the door was yanked open.
Erin appeared. She was wearing tight jeans and a soft green sweater that contrasted nicely with her hair.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you were going to call.”
“We need to talk.”
Erin held the door open so I could pass through it into her house. There were hardwood floors, arched entryways, beamed ceilings, a brick fireplace, vintage lamps, and furniture that looked like it was made the same year as the house. Nina had loved the place when we were last there about two years ago.
I unzipped my leather jacket but didn’t take it off.
“Coffee?” Erin said. “Beer?”
“I’m good.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I have something,” she said.
Erin passed into her kitchen with me following behind. Unlike the rest of the house, the kitchen looked like it had been built yesterday as a showplace for a design company. It made for an interesting dichotomy.
There was a delicate-looking cup and saucer already on the granite counter. Erin filled the cup from a French press and took a sip while holding the saucer beneath it. For some reason I thought this was odd, but then I grew up in decidedly blue-collar Merriam Park and drank from a mug emblazoned with an image of the Millennium Falcon.
“Are you sure I can’t offer you anything?” she asked.
“Carson Brazill.”
“Yes, I was afraid it might be him when you mentioned that you had been followed by someone from Chicago.”
“He said he’s looking for Christine Olson.”
“I’m sure he is. It’s more comfortable in the living room.”
Erin moved past me. I followed her again. She found a spot on a mohair-upholstered chair with carved wooden arms and feet, balancing the saucer with one hand and drinking from the cup with the other.
“Tell me you weren’t followed,” she said.
“I wasn’t followed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure. Who’s Carson Brazill? Who’s Christine Olson?”
“Christine is a figment of my imagination. I wish I could say the same of Carson. How did he look, by the way? Did you see him?”
“He looked like a congressman who dreams of one day becoming a lobbyist for the coal industry. Erin—”
“What did you tell him?”
“About Christine? I told him I never met the woman, that I had no idea who she was.”
“He didn’t believe you, though, did he?”
“No.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
Erin set the cup on the saucer and held both in front of her as she leaned her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. She was speaking to herself, yet I heard her just the same.
“So close, so close,” she said. “I can’t lose now.”
“Salsa Girl?”
Erin’s eyes snapped open and she looked up at me.
“How can I help you?” I asked.
“You might not want to after you’ve heard my story.”
“Have you murdered someone?”
“Of course not.”
“Then tell me what I can do for you.”
“Really? Not being a murderer is where you set the bar when deciding whether or not to help someone? That’s awfully broad-minded.”
“It helps that we’re friends.”
“I could use a friend.” Erin turned her head and stared out of her living room window at the sidewalk and street beyond. “I’m not sure, though, that—oh.” Erin’s eyes grew wide and she sighed deeply, dramatically. “Not followed, huh?”
I rushed to the window and looked out. Four men, all dressed in suits, stood in the center of the street three houses down. I recognized them all—Brazill, Chandler, and their two minions. They were looking at the houses around them as if they were unsure which direction to turn.
“How did they…” I smacked my forehead with my left hand; I figured I deserved the stab of pain the gesture brought to my shoulder. “Dammit, Erin. This is on me. They must have tagged my Mustang while it was in the parking lot last night. That’s how they found me in Cambridge this morning, only I was too dumb to catch on at the time.”
“You were in Cambridge?”
I turned around. Erin had left the comfort of her chair and was standing behind me, balancing the saucer in one hand and the coffee cup in the other. She seemed perfectly calm.
“We have much to talk about,” I told her.
“Where are you parked?” Erin asked.
“A block down from here and across the street.”
“That means they have no way of knowing which house we’re in.”
“Judging by the way Brazill and Chandler are wandering up and down the street—no. Maybe they think we’ll step outside and wave, invite them in for French press coffee.”
Erin sipped what was left of the brew and set both the cup and saucer on an antique table.
“What would you do if you were them?” she asked.
“They can’t loiter much longer, not in this neighborhood. Someone is bound to become suspicious and call the police. What I would do, I’d go back to my car and pretend to be inconspicuous. But first, I’d take down the address of every house in the immediate vicinity. While I was sitting in the car, I’d use my smartphone to run the addresses one at a time through the Hennepin County property tax website. Among other things, that would provide me with the name of each homeowner, as well as whoever is paying taxes on the property—this is all public record, you see. If that didn’t tell me what I wanted to know, I’d Google each of the names, using the addresses to narrow the search. Between Facebook, LinkedIn, Whitepages, and all the other sites that are available and the images that are posted on them, it shouldn’t be too hard to decide which door to knock on.”
“How long do you think that would take?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Plenty of time.”
“To do what?”
“Make good my escape.”
“Erin, you can always call the cops yourself.”
“No, I don’t think so. Besides, what could they do for me besides delay the inevitable? These people have been chasing Christine Olson for fifteen years. They’re not going to stop now.”
“Who exactly are these people?”
“The Outfit.”
“The Outfit? The organized crime family based in Chicago that was started by Johnny Torrio and Al Capone—that Outfit?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh…”
“You seem concerned.”
“Wait. The Outfit doesn’t have a presence in Minneapolis. The Cities have been pretty much free of organized crime ever since they put Isadore ‘Kid Cann’ Blumenfeld away for violating the Mann Act and jury tampering in the early sixties.”
“I know. That’s why I originally moved here.”
“I was right before—we really do have a lot to talk about.”
“There’s no reason for you to continue involving yourself in my troubles.”
“You mean besides the fact that I’m responsible for leading a squad of career criminals to the street where you live?”
Erin made the sign of the cross in the air in front of me.
“I absolve you of all your sins,” she said.
“What? No penance?”
I stared out the bay window at the street. The four gangsters had split up and were now moving independently up and down the adjacent streets, peering at houses as if they could see inside them.
“I need to get to my car,” I said.
“Your car has been tagged, remember. They probably attached a tracking device to your bumper and used a sat nav system to determine your location.”
“Let me rephrase—I need to get something out of my car?”
“What?”
“A gym bag filled with $10,000 in cash, a burn phone, fake IDs, and a nine-millimeter handgun.”
“Always prepared; I knew you were a Boy Scout. But McKenzie, we don’t need those things.”
“Fifteen years you say you’ve been running from these guys? Do you want to keep running? For how long? The rest of your life? Think of what you’ve built here. Think of what you’ll be giving up.”
“I have been. I’ve been thinking about it very hard, believe me.”
“Well, then.”
“Don’t tell me you already have a plan.”
I tapped my temple with two fingers.
“The wheels are spinning,” I said. “But I’m going to need to get to my car.”
“In that case, I have an idea.”
Erin told me what it was.
“I have to say, Salsa Girl—I’m astonished by how calmly you’re taking all of this.”
“I assure you, McKenzie, I am anything but calm. And don’t call me Salsa Girl.”
* * *
I escaped Erin’s house through her back door, crossing her tiny yard, hopping a fence—which caused my shoulder to ache some more—cutting through the yard of the neighbor directly behind her, and moving in a straight line, crossing two streets and four more yards until I reached the base of the small park where the Witch’s Hat was located. I hung a left, walked nearly a quarter mile, hung another left until I hit Erin’s street, and started walking back toward her house and my Mustang. I saw one of Brazill’s henchmen a couple of blocks directly in front of me, only he was on the other side of my car and facing the opposite direction.
My leather jacket was unzipped, and when I lowered my head it looked as if I were speaking to my inside pocket.
“I’m nearly there,” I said.
I kept walking; it was all I could do to keep from breaking into a run. The only reason I didn’t run was I was afraid of bringing undue attention to myself.
“Thirty seconds,” I said.
Up ahead, the henchman stopped and watched while a BMW backed quickly out of Erin Peterson’s garage and down her short driveway. ’Course, he didn’t know whose garage and driveway it was. The car backed into the street. For some inexplicable reason, the henchman glanced over his shoulder. And saw me.
“It’s him.” He pointed in my direction. “There, there, there.”
I didn’t see who he was yelling to, and I didn’t bother to look. Instead, I sprinted the rest of the way to the Mustang. I popped the trunk with the button on my key fob and grabbed the gym bag. The henchman was nearly on me. But Erin had been quicker. She screeched the BMW to a halt next to the Mustang. I stepped into the street, opened the passenger door, and slid inside. Erin drove off as I was closing the door. I glanced behind me. The henchman held a gun. He raised it with two hands and sighted on us. Before he could shoot, though, Chandler appeared at his side. He placed his own hand on the henchman’s gun and pushed downward until the muzzle was pointed at the ground.
Meanwhile, the black Acura pulled out of its parking space and motored down the street behind us. It stopped only long enough for Chandler and the henchman to climb aboard. Erin turned, and I lost sight of it.
“I should drive,” I said. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and tapped the END CALL icon; that was how Erin had heard me talking to her.
“Because?” Erin said.
“Police academy.” I slipped the cell back into my pocket. “I was trained to do this.”
“I thought you were going to say it was because you’re a manly man who does manly things in a manly way.”
“Excuse me. What?”
“Something I heard you say once when you were asked why you still play hockey at your advanced age.”
“Advanced age? How old do you think I am?”
Erin was glancing at her rearview mirror when she said, “Put on your seat belt, please.”
I glanced through the rear window. The Acura was on our tail and coming fast. I was relieved to see that Chandler and his pals weren’t leaning out the windows of their vehicle and spraying Prospect Park with bullets like they do in the movies.
Professionals, my inner voice said.
I put on the seat belt.
Erin accelerated hard while threading her way through the narrow streets. She let the Beemer drift to the left side of the street as she approached an intersection, braking gradually at first and then more heavily before swinging the steering wheel hard to the right, making sure her tires were as close as possible to the inside edge of the corner as she turned. Once clear she stomped on the accelerator again, and the BMW leapt forward.
The most important thing to remember in a high-speed chase, or so I had been instructed, was not to crash, because even if you survived the accident you were going to be a sitting duck. That’s why high speeds were not recommended. By keeping your speedometer under sixty miles per hour, you’d have greater control of your vehicle and evasive maneuvers would be easier to accomplish. Erin seemed to understand this; Brazill and his minions not so much. I didn’t see it because Erin had maneuvered the BMW through another tight right turn, but I was sure I heard the distinct crunch of metal against metal behind us. Erin made two lefts and one more right that brought us to University Avenue heading for St. Paul, where she slowed to the speed limit. I could no longer see the Acura.
“Ms. Peterson?” I said.
“Mr. McKenzie?”
“You can drive.”
She thought that was awfully funny.
* * *
We didn’t remain on University for long, only a couple of blocks, before Erin turned off. My first thought was that she was heading for her place of business; not a good idea. I would have told her so except that a couple more turns brought us to the service road that ran alongside I-94. At the end of the service road was a sprawling, three-story storage facility. I decided it wasn’t a coincidence that the facility was located almost midway between where Erin lived and where she worked.
She halted the BMW at the gate leading to the storehouse, slipped out of the car, and walked quickly to an electronic control unit mounted on a steel pole. She inputted a code from memory, and the gate began to slide open. Once back in the car, she waited until the gate was opened fully and drove through it, following the concrete driveway to a metal garage door large enough for furniture trucks. She paused until the gate behind us closed. When it did, the garage door opened automatically, and Erin drove inside.
The building reminded me of a parking ramp, except instead of spaces, there were car-sized storage units lining the walls on both sides of the wide driveway. We followed it, passing a bank of huge elevators where people could unload their belongings onto dollies and lift them to the smaller storage units on the second and third floors. Finally Erin halted the BMW. She turned off the car, got out, and made her way to a garage door. There was a lock that she opened with a key. The door was on rollers, and it was easy for her to push it open. Inside the storage unit was a car, its hood up, its battery connected to a charger that was plugged into a wall socket.
She disconnected the charger, closed the hood, negotiated the narrow space between the garage wall and the car, and opened the driver’s side door. She slipped inside. The car started with little effort. Erin drove it out of the garage onto the storage facility’s wide driveway. I recognized it as a two-door Toyota Solara coupe, a car they stopped manufacturing in 2008. It was light brown, Desert Sand I think they called it, the least noticeable color for a car. Erin turned it off and got out. She threw me the keys. I caught them with my left hand and winced.
“Where’s your sling?” Erin asked.
“I left it in the Mustang.”
“Was that a good idea?”
“No.”
“Put the Beemer inside.”
I did as she asked. After parking the BMW, I carried my gym bag out of the garage. Erin had removed both her coat and her green sweater and was now standing with her naked back to me. I considered briefly how smooth her skin looked—C’mon, McKenzie, my inner voice said, focus—and then shook the thought from my head.
The trunk of the Solara was open. Erin reached inside and pulled out a light blue pullover that matched the color of her bra and put it on. I moved to the trunk and looked at the contents. There were two suitcases. One was opened. Along with clothes, it contained a number of burn phones and a handful of prepaid credit cards bound with a rubber band. I picked up the credit cards.
“Prepaid credit cards can be purchased without a credit check.” Erin used a hair tie to pull her golden hair into a ponytail. “They aren’t connected to your bank account, and because the money is front-loaded, your transactions are never reported to credit agencies.” She flipped the ponytail over the top of her head and secured it in place with a wig cap.
“How much is here?” I asked.
Erin carefully fit a medium-length red wig over the cap.
“About fifty thousand,” she said. “There’s cash, too.”
I dropped the credit cards back into the suitcase and tossed the gym bag next to it.
“Pretty elaborate go-bag,” I said. “Obviously you’ve been planning this for some time.”
Erin used a handheld mirror to make sure her wig fit properly.
“I’ve been tinkering with it every few months for over ten years,” she said. “It’s like maintaining a storm shelter in your backyard. You never actually want to use it. How do I look?”
I examined the red wig.
“Good,” I said. “Although I prefer you as a blonde.”
“That’s because it’s what you’re used to. Here.”
Erin gave me a Minnesota Twins baseball hat. I put it on while she slipped on a black fleece jacket.
“Keys,” she said.
I returned them to her. Erin slammed the trunk lid shut and moved back to the garage door. She pulled it down and locked it.
“Is your shoulder okay?” she asked. “Are you good to drive?’
“Yes.”
She tossed the keys to me as she started back to the Solara. I climbed into the driver’s side while Erin made herself comfortable in the passenger seat.
“Straight at the door,” she said. “Not too fast.”
I drove slowly toward the huge garage door at the end of the driveway. It opened when I was close enough to trip an electronic eye. I drove out of the storage facility toward yet another gate. This one also opened without our having to input a code. We soon found ourselves on a city street.
“Where to?” I asked.
“You decide.”
“I have property up north.”
“Then we should go in the opposite direction. Give me your phone.”
I passed my cell over and maneuvered the Solara onto I-94 and headed east. Erin opened my phone, removed the battery, and gave both back to me. I slipped them into my pocket.
“Nice car,” I said. “I’m surprised Toyota stopped making them.”
“They didn’t sell as well as the Camry. This is a first-generation model, built in 1999. You’ll notice it has no computer, no GPS.”
“I did notice. I assume that’s why you dismantled my cell phone, to deactivate the GPS.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
Soon we were crossing the Lafayette Bridge and driving south on Highway 52.
“Who goes first?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Should I tell you my story, or would you prefer to tell me yours?”
“How badly did Randy hurt me?”
I explained, starting with Alice Pfeifer’s phone call yesterday afternoon and ending with my meeting with Carson Brazill at the Mall of America that morning.
“Randy Bignell-Sax.” Erin spoke as if they were the saddest words she had ever heard. “Can you believe anyone is that stupid? Now they’re going to put him in charge of Bignell Bakeries and Minnesota Foods. That’s a corporate catastrophe waiting to happen. I never thought I’d feel sorry for Marilyn.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what’s happening on the north side of the Cities. On the south side we have two people fleeing the Outfit in a nineteen-year-old Solara.”
“Nothing of what you said Randy did explains how Carson found me.”
“I’m still not entirely sure who this Carson is. Or who you are, either, for that matter.”
Erin spent a lot of time staring out the side window. She didn’t speak until we were approaching Hastings.
“Once upon a time, there was a young woman,” she said. “No, not a woman. A girl who was nowhere near as smart as she thought she was…”
* * *
She was sure everyone was looking at her and wondering what kind of woman she must be to expose herself like that—sprawled out on a beach lounge in the skimpiest bikini she had ever seen much less worn. She had a white cardigan cover-up, but her boyfriend wouldn’t allow her to put it on. Averill Naylor had worked hard over the years to make himself rich, and he wanted everyone to know it. He was almost desperate to flaunt his wealth and the things that it could buy, like his Brioni suits, gold Patek Philippe watch, Jaguar XJ sports car, and beautiful blond girlfriend who was literally fifty years younger than he was, so no, he wouldn’t let her conceal her body even if the Jamaican sun was sautéing her pale skin. Nor would he let her cover her bare shoulders with a chiffon shawl when she entered the dining room in the strapless sequined gown he had bought for her, or even wear her sunglasses in public. He wanted her to be seen, all of her, he said. That’s why he brought her to the resort. So people could see her. So they could see him with her.
She knew all that, of course; she understood perfectly that she was little more than an ornament to him. It embarrassed her anyway. She worked hard not to show it, though. Averill would become upset if she appeared uncomfortable when they went out together. Once he caught her tugging on the bodice of her evening gown because she was afraid it would slip down and bare her breasts. He slapped her hands and hissed, “Don’t do that.” Later, he apologized. He wasn’t a bad man, she told herself. Most of the time he was very pleasant company, kind and generous, even sweet. But the slap reminded her why she had agreed to let him escort her to Jamaica and Las Vegas and to all those parties and openings and charity galas in Chicago. She did it for the money.
It wasn’t the career path she had originally chosen for herself. She had studied economics at Northwestern University, but her bachelor’s degree had left her with over $100,000 of debt. She had job offers, mostly from banks and insurance companies. To pay her bills, she took a position at a credit bureau even though she knew it was a dead-end job. As it was, after subtracting the barest living expenses, she discovered that her salary scarcely allowed her to pay the interest on her student loans, much less whack away at the principal. Nor did she have family she could lean on, parents she could live with while she dug herself out of the financial hole that college had dropped her in.
* * *
“I told you the truth when I said I was an orphan, McKenzie,” Erin said. “My father really did die when I was a child. My mother passed just two months after I started school. My inheritance paid for my first two years’ tuition.”
“You lied when you said you went to the University of Wisconsin.”
“I lied about a lot of things.”
“When you said—”
“Do you want me to tell you the story or not?”
“Go ’head.”
* * *
She attended a party with many of her former classmates, some of whom were in the same position as she was, including an ex-boyfriend who had attended DePaul University. Alcohol was consumed and stories were exchanged. Late in the evening a woman pulled her aside, an art history major, who told her that she knew how a girl who was both smart and pretty could make some easy money if she was willing. The art major was very beautiful, and the young woman was jealous of her.
* * *
“Startling blue eyes and short black hair,” Erin said. “She looked a little like Nina.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said.
* * *
Still, she was outraged. Was the art major suggesting prostitution? Turning tricks in some hot-sheet motel for $100 a client? Acting in adult films perhaps, making $1,000 to $1,800 per sex scene? The art major was upset that the economics major would think so little of her. I was trying to do you a favor, she said. What favor? I know people I can introduce you to. What people? Never mind. No, tell me. Older men. What about them? They’ll pay you to be seen with them. Prostitution. No. What do you call it? An economics professor at the University of Chicago says it’s like renting a trophy wife by the hour. That’s where the smart part of it comes in, the art major said. According to her, these men wanted young and attractive women that they could have an intelligent conversation with, women they could introduce to their friends and associates without being embarrassed. Who’s smarter than you are? the art major asked. Who’s prettier?
The economics major appreciated the art major’s compliments, yet said thanks-but-no-thanks just the same. That’s when the art major mentioned that she had made $6,000 for twelve hours of work the previous week and hadn’t slept with anyone she didn’t want to. The economics major did the math quickly—at $500 an hour for twelve hours a week, she could pay off her student loans in a little over four months. Quicker, if she logged more hours.
She reminded herself that she wasn’t a virgin saving herself for marriage; she had had a healthy sex life at Northwestern, mostly with college boys who had no idea what they were doing. What difference would it make if she hooked up with older men for a change, she asked herself? She wouldn’t be like a real prostitute. Real prostitutes worked the streets because they were being forced to by some guy, or because they needed money for drugs, or whatever. It was a bad situation, but it wouldn’t be her situation. She’d be a partner in her exploitation. No, not a partner. She’d be the sole proprietor of a service business that was ostensibly no different than accounting or banking.
She hadn’t entirely talked herself into it, though. Even economics majors have some sense of morality. Yet she had agreed to accompany the art major to a gathering on Sheridan Road. It was surreal—so many older men and a few older women mingling with so many younger women and a few younger men with no age group in between, as if the world had somehow skipped an entire generation. What surprised her even more, though, was how much she enjoyed herself. The conversations were about art, history, politics, the theater, even economics. No one spoke about sports or work or the latest Marvel superhero movie.
Averill Naylor approached her while she was examining a quirky painting by Chagall. The small canvas caught her eye while she was returning from the restroom. She looked closely to see if it was real or a print. Of course, it was real. Averill asked if she was an admirer. The economics major said that she didn’t particularly care for the modernists but that one had to admire Chagall’s use of color. He asked what kind of art she favored. She said that it might seem like a contradiction, but she admired the realists like Courbet and Daumier as well as the Pre-Raphaelites like Rossetti and Waterhouse.
Averill smiled at the young woman as if he were proud of her and introduced himself. She said her name was Christine Olson …
* * *
“So that is your real name,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” Erin said. “Pay attention, McKenzie.”
* * *
Averill Naylor was a handsome man for his age, tall and thin with a shock of white hair, and looking at him, the economics major knew that if he asked her out she would accept. Yet something tugged at her. Maybe it was her sense of propriety; she didn’t know. She did know that if she agreed to enter Averill’s world, it would be only for a short time; she would take what she needed, and afterward she would never look back. At the same time, she wanted to be sure the life wouldn’t follow her. So she invented her new identity on the spot, and Averill accepted it without question. Not once during the time they were together did he ever ask to see her ID.
* * *
“Eventually I would create a false identity to go with the name Christine Olson,” Erin said. “We’ll get to that later.”
* * *
For their first date, Averill escorted her to the Art Institute of Chicago. He was very attentive and very knowledgeable, and they held hands like lovers as they maneuvered from one exhibit to another. Christine noticed people watching them, the old man holding the young woman’s hand. Averill enjoyed the attention. Christine felt awkward and uncomfortable, yet she never once removed her hand from his. After he drove her to her apartment, he gave her an envelope. She hesitated before taking it, and when she did, she pushed it down into her purse without opening it. He seemed to like that, too.
Averill asked if she would spend more time with him. Christine agreed. She said something then that surprised them both, mostly because it was so obviously true—she couldn’t remember the last time she had enjoyed herself so much in a man’s company. Averill kissed her cheek.
Later, alone in her apartment, Christine opened the envelope. It contained $2,000.
They didn’t sleep together until her earnings topped $25,000, and then it was she who made the first move, literally taking Averill’s hand and leading him to the bedroom. Christine didn’t do it for the money. She did it because over the weeks she had come to genuinely care for him. Averill had been as surprised by the turn of events as Christine was. Yet he never stopped giving her envelopes, and she never stopped accepting them.
They had reached $64,500 when Averill died of a heart attack in his condominium overlooking Millennium Park. Christine had stepped out of the bathroom wearing only her panties and discovered him lying naked on his bed, his hands clasped behind his head as if he had been contemplating something pleasant.
She could have gotten dressed and walked out; there was no foul play involved, nothing for the police to investigate once someone discovered Averill’s body. Yet she couldn’t leave him like that for some cleaning woman to find. Instead, Christine called 911 and told the operator that her friend had died—because she was his friend.
Averill’s death had affected Christine more than she could have imagined. She spent the next three days in bed, calling in sick to work, leaving her apartment only to attend his funeral. She remained in the back of the chapel, keeping to herself. Yet the whispers floated around her. Somehow the mourners had learned that she was “that woman.”
Averill had scrupulously kept her away from his family. Now they came at her—sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. They said that Averill had merely been going through a difficult phase, a bad patch, and that she had taken advantage of him; it was as if they believed he had been suffering a midlife crisis at age seventy-one. They told her if she was expecting more money, if she thought that somehow she had weaseled herself into Averill’s will, to forget it. They had friends in City Hall. They would crush her. Christine listened to it all, suffering their slings and arrows without comment even when they called her a whore and a prostitute. She wasn’t entirely sure they were wrong.
Finally, as Christine was leaving, a woman her age—Averill’s granddaughter, as it turned out—intercepted her at the door. She said that Averill had been deeply unhappy for many years after his wife had died, except for those months at the end when he had been involved with Christine. She hugged Christine and said thank you, told her she was a good person, and wished her a happy life.
Christine ran to her car, hoping to get inside before she broke down in tears. She nearly made it …
* * *
“I can’t tell you how much that small act of kindness meant to me, McKenzie,” Erin said. “It changed my life. Not then, though. No, it was much, much later. I had to hit rock bottom first.”