be seeing you around.”
“Lee—wait.”
He turned back to her.
“What?”
“I—I still care about you, you know.”
“Let me know when you have it worked out. And good luck with the pumpkin eater.”
He pulled up his coat collar and walked away without looking back. He left the restaurant and headed down the steps to the river, the snow stinging his face. He could hear the water lapping up against the moorings, and the creak of the ropes as the boats strained against them. The seagulls circled and cried high in the sky above him, their harsh voices floating out over the waves, only to vanish into the thin, wintry air.
C HAPTER T HIRTEEN
H e decided to walk home and struck out across the icy tundra of Battery Park. The storm had sculpted a thick layer of frozen snow and ice over the benches and fence posts. It reminded him of the white frosting his mother used to spread over angel food cake, his father’s favorite. He shook off the memory—he hated thinking about his father.
Walking north toward the Winter Garden, Lee was surprised that he didn’t feel overwhelming sadness. Emptiness, yes, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Part of him longed to wash his hands of everything he had known—to make a break and sail away into an unknown future. He had read of people who left their lives behind and invented new identities, and had always wondered what that would be like. Of course, most of them were con artists in search of another mark, but there was something enticing about walking away from responsibilities and expectations and the exhausting rituals of human interaction. Then it occurred to him: that was exactly what his father had done—at great cost to the people he’d left behind.
Such thoughts like could be a precursor to a major depressive episode, so he tried to steer his mind elsewhere. He couldn’t afford illness right now; there was too much riding on his ability to help solve the Alleyway Strangler case. But everyone and everything in his life felt like a burden. He loved his mother and his niece—and Kathy, he supposed—but he felt hemmed in and longed for some air.
He found solace walking alone through the city on nights like this, when few people ventured out onto the icy streets. He loved wandering the nearly empty blocks of one of the world’s most populous cities. New York became his own private park, a landscape both charming and gritty but always interesting.
At the front entrance to the Winter Garden, an elderly couple in matching red parkas picked their way carefully across a patch of ice. The man held the woman’s elbow protectively, steadying her. He wondered if he and Kathy would ever be that couple, or if it was finished between them forever.
He turned east on Vesey Street. With each step he felt lighter. What was wrong with him? He cared about Kathy—loved her, even—and yet he was relieved. She had made the decision, not him, and that lightened his burden. He felt guilty that he didn’t feel worse, as he waited for the light at West Street.
The traffic wasn’t as thick as usual, but a steady stream of cars crept along the four lanes of highway. Chunks of ice and snow rattled beneath their tires, picked up and then spit out a few yards later. The city’s snowplows couldn’t keep up, even though sanitation workers had pulled double shifts to work through the night. He always thought it would be kind of fun to be on snow patrol during a storm—but then, Lee supposed most jobs looked better from the outside.
People at parties were sometimes impressed with what he did for a living, but they didn’t realize it came with a grinding sense of responsibility and pressure to solve a case. He was often called in as a last resort, when ordinary crime-solving techniques failed. There was little glamour in police work. Mountains of paperwork, sore feet, and long hours, but not much glamour.
He headed north through Tribeca, once an area of dilapidated warehouses and deserted
“Lee—wait.”
He turned back to her.
“What?”
“I—I still care about you, you know.”
“Let me know when you have it worked out. And good luck with the pumpkin eater.”
He pulled up his coat collar and walked away without looking back. He left the restaurant and headed down the steps to the river, the snow stinging his face. He could hear the water lapping up against the moorings, and the creak of the ropes as the boats strained against them. The seagulls circled and cried high in the sky above him, their harsh voices floating out over the waves, only to vanish into the thin, wintry air.
C HAPTER T HIRTEEN
H e decided to walk home and struck out across the icy tundra of Battery Park. The storm had sculpted a thick layer of frozen snow and ice over the benches and fence posts. It reminded him of the white frosting his mother used to spread over angel food cake, his father’s favorite. He shook off the memory—he hated thinking about his father.
Walking north toward the Winter Garden, Lee was surprised that he didn’t feel overwhelming sadness. Emptiness, yes, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Part of him longed to wash his hands of everything he had known—to make a break and sail away into an unknown future. He had read of people who left their lives behind and invented new identities, and had always wondered what that would be like. Of course, most of them were con artists in search of another mark, but there was something enticing about walking away from responsibilities and expectations and the exhausting rituals of human interaction. Then it occurred to him: that was exactly what his father had done—at great cost to the people he’d left behind.
Such thoughts like could be a precursor to a major depressive episode, so he tried to steer his mind elsewhere. He couldn’t afford illness right now; there was too much riding on his ability to help solve the Alleyway Strangler case. But everyone and everything in his life felt like a burden. He loved his mother and his niece—and Kathy, he supposed—but he felt hemmed in and longed for some air.
He found solace walking alone through the city on nights like this, when few people ventured out onto the icy streets. He loved wandering the nearly empty blocks of one of the world’s most populous cities. New York became his own private park, a landscape both charming and gritty but always interesting.
At the front entrance to the Winter Garden, an elderly couple in matching red parkas picked their way carefully across a patch of ice. The man held the woman’s elbow protectively, steadying her. He wondered if he and Kathy would ever be that couple, or if it was finished between them forever.
He turned east on Vesey Street. With each step he felt lighter. What was wrong with him? He cared about Kathy—loved her, even—and yet he was relieved. She had made the decision, not him, and that lightened his burden. He felt guilty that he didn’t feel worse, as he waited for the light at West Street.
The traffic wasn’t as thick as usual, but a steady stream of cars crept along the four lanes of highway. Chunks of ice and snow rattled beneath their tires, picked up and then spit out a few yards later. The city’s snowplows couldn’t keep up, even though sanitation workers had pulled double shifts to work through the night. He always thought it would be kind of fun to be on snow patrol during a storm—but then, Lee supposed most jobs looked better from the outside.
People at parties were sometimes impressed with what he did for a living, but they didn’t realize it came with a grinding sense of responsibility and pressure to solve a case. He was often called in as a last resort, when ordinary crime-solving techniques failed. There was little glamour in police work. Mountains of paperwork, sore feet, and long hours, but not much glamour.
He headed north through Tribeca, once an area of dilapidated warehouses and deserted
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