Shadowkiller by Wendy Corsi Staub

handy during the wintry weather these past few months. She could leave her desk at Cantor Fitzgerald on the 104th floor of the north tower and, without being exposed to the elements, emerge from the subway right around the corner from her Washington Heights apartment building.
    That commute had become so choreographed that she could probably do it blindfolded. Every night, faced with a row of concourse escalators, all of them descending toward the bowels of the building, she chose to ride the second to the right. At the bottom, entering the subway, she always put her token into the same turnstile—the one on the far left—and positioned herself in front of the same pillar on the platform, precisely where the doors to the fourth car on the next uptown train would open. That would allow her, when she reached her stop, to exit the train directly at the foot of the stairs to the street.
    Elevator, escalator, subway, stairs.
    Elevator, escalator, subway, stairs.
    It’s all about the rhythm. Get into the rhythm of it . . .
    Elevator, escalator, subway, stairs.
    She liked knowing exactly where to go and what to do. There was a certain comfort to order; to ordinary —most of the time.
    Tonight, she was feeling uncharacteristically restless; tired of knowing exactly what was going to happen next. Tired of the commute, of the job itself, of going home alone to that drab little apartment.
    Little? That was an understatement. Every night and every morning, she had to crawl in and out of her double bed across the foot, because the edges of the mattress on either side were right up against the walls. Usually, that didn’t bother her. She could afford the rent, and she was exactly where she wanted to be: in Manhattan.
    Tonight, though, she was in no hurry to get back home. And so, after riding the elevator down to the lobby, she faltered.
    What the heck are you doing? she wondered as, instead of taking the escalators on down to the concourse and the C train, she impulsively exited to the street.
    I’m listening to my gut. That’s what I’m doing.
    Was it a case of spring fever? If so, she must have caught it from her coworkers, in much the same way that being surrounded by an office full of coughing, sneezing people would inevitably lead to a tickle in your own nose and throat by the end of the day.
    Today’s workplace chatter had been all about the unseasonably warm weather. According to the calendar, springtime was still a couple of weeks away. But the city had been bathed in warm sunshine all afternoon, and while at this time of year the concrete didn’t hold the heat, the evening chill was nowhere near as biting as it should be.
    Carrie found the open space between the two towers alive with twilight activity. Despite the pleasant weather, no one lingered on the low benches surrounding the spherical bronze sculpture at the plaza’s center. Businessmen and women in suits and trench coats scurried past, following their own well-worn paths of least resistance from office to train, bus, or ferry. At the end of a long day, all anyone wanted in this city—at least here in the financial district—was to get home, the sooner, the better.
    Not me. Not tonight.
    Carrie knew she couldn’t walk all the way up to Washington Heights—not wearing pumps, pantyhose, and a skirt—but she was going to stroll for as long as she felt like it.
    After being confined to a skyscraper’s artificial ventilation for nine hours straight, she found the fresh night air almost intoxicating. The few blocks she’d expected to walk turned into miles.
    As she moved north, Broadway, all business at the lower end of Manhattan, transformed into a neighborhood where people lived and dined and shopped. She passed storefront pizzerias, trendy boutiques, and—when she reached the Village—NYU’s massive academic buildings.
    Backpack-toting college students milled about smoking