"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Calling you a cab." He made the call and stuffed the phone back in his pocket with a curse.

I shivered. A steady slap of footsteps and the clicks of heels grew louder as a stampede of wet bodies rushed past the mouth of the alley. Reece watched them, his eyes narrowing.

"Hey!" he shouted. The brick walls on both sides echoed, and a fleeing boy with a drooping Mohawk turned toward us. "What's going on?"

"Someone called the cops. Party's over, man." The kid shrugged and took off running.

Reece swore. "You need to get out of here."

"Why? I've got nothing to hide. I was with you all night."

He scraped the water from his eyes and tipped his head, incredulous. "With me all night? When I came back from my meeting with Lonny you were gone! I've been looking for you for an hour! When I found you lying in the alley I thought you were dead!"

I stared, openmouthed. "What do you mean, you found me in the alley? You carried me out."

A yellow taxi cruised past the alley, stopped, and reversed slowly. Its headlights swung toward us, blinding us and silencing our fight. It parked behind Reece and I shielded my eyes against the glare. Reece's eyes widened and he rushed toward me. His face was frantic as he lifted my hair, turning my cheek toward the light.

"You're bleeding." His hand came away with a red, watery smear. We both watched as it melted away in long pink streaks, pooling in the grooves of the pavement where he'd found me. I touched my neck, my shoulder, my face. No cuts. No breaks. My hair was thick and sticky against my bare shoulders. I pulled my fingers through it and held them up to the taxi's light. They were red and slick. Reece knelt, angling his body out of the light's path. A red stream bubbled along the base of the wall behind the Dumpster. He stepped slowly, arms spread and palms back, holding me behind him as he tracked the source. I followed, watching the river thicken, glossy and almost black where it rounded the Dumpster. The air smelled like wet pennies and I clapped a hand over my mouth.

The Dumpster cast a shadow over a mound beside it. Reece flicked on his penlight and stumbled back. The body lay broken and wet, in a puddle of red. Blood-soaked hair plastered her cheeks, obscuring her face. It was a girl, her wrists and ankles tied together, making a crude triangle of her body. Her skin shone white where the rain smacked against it, except for one forearm, where angry red lines cut deep enough to expose tendons, but no longer bled. She was empty. The last of her life gurgled over the street. Stuck in my hair. I'd been lying in Kylie's blood.

I spun around and clutched my stomach as it reeled. I sucked in shallow breaths and swallowed hard. I couldn't look anymore.

"It's a number cut in her arm, isn't it?" I called over my shoulder. I shut my eyes, waiting.

"Seventy-six," Reece answered, hoarse and shaken.

The taxi leaned on his horn and flashed his lights, oblivious to the gruesome scene we'd discovered. Reece grabbed me by the arm and dragged me toward the cab. Opening the door, he tossed me inside.

Sirens screamed in the distance. Reece dug inside his jacket, dropped my glasses in my lap, and slammed the door. Then he leaned inside the passenger window. He eyed the cabbie as he peeled a bill from a roll of cash.

"This is to take her home."

The cabbie nodded, taking the money.

Then Reece handed over the remaining stack. The cabbie's eyes grew wide as he closed his hand around it. "And this," Reece ordered in a thick, rough voice, "is for not asking questions. You were never here."

He gave me one last look, beat a fist against the roof, and the taxi took off.

37.

I froze in the doorway. Smoke curled from Mona's lips under the harsh fluorescent light. Her elbows perched on the table, an ashtray spilling over between them.

"Why aren't you at work?" I touched the soaked ends of my hair and resisted the urge to check them for blood. I'd stood under the security light in the pouring rain until the water stopped running pink, but I could still feel it.

Rainwater dripped steadily onto the carpet. Mona's eyes drifted over the wrecked dress and rested on my bare feet as she sucked another drag. "Jim hired another new girl. He sent me home early." She'd been coming home earlier, her tip jar lighter on Friday mornings than it used to be. The kitchen light deepened the lines around her eyes and her hands bore new creases like smoke rings. "You never stay out this late."

"How would you know? You never wait up." I listened for sirens, then shut the door and slid the dead bolt in place. I leaned back against the door and looked at her, wishing she weren't here. I wanted to scrub away every drop of Kylie's blood. I wanted to hide under a mountain of blankets with my father's ring.

"Never had a reason to." Mona crushed out the remains of her cigarette, emptying the last ribbon of smoke from her lungs. Her chair scraped against the floor and she left the room.

I kicked the door with my bare foot. Had I expected anything more from her? She never waited up because she was never here.

A moment later, Mona returned, carrying a stack of clean towels and a hairbrush.

"Sit down." She pulled out a chair and gestured with the brush, filling me with dej vu. Gena had given me the same command a few hours ago. Now her ruined dress clung cold to my skin, and I'd lost her damn shoes. She was going to kill me. The thought was so absurd I choked on hysterical laughter. Gena wouldn't have a chance to kill me. I'd be behind bars for the rest of my life.

I dropped wearily into the chair. My raw nerves jumped when a towel snapped next to my ear and wrapped around my bare shoulders, followed by the pull of a brush through my hair. She was careful not to touch me. Even so, I tensed, waiting for my mother to scream, to find a long bloody strand, for the towel to turn pink. But the brush kept up its rhythm. It was the same kind of brush she'd used when I was a girl and caught on the tangles with every stroke, but she expertly worked it through. It eased the blistering pain in my head. My heavy lids closed, fatigue consuming me.

Mona worked in silence to the crush of rain against the roof, to the soft pitter-patter of water dripping from my hem to the linoleum floor. The seconds ticked away. I wasn't sure how many I had left.

"You said Dad had a record. I want to know what it was."

She was quiet, the only sound the rustle of the brush. "Once you know something about a person, you can't unknow it."

"I already know about the fake IDs in his wallet. I know he had phony credit cards and used different names. But I want to know who he was. Not those other people he was pretending to be. I want to know why he left."

The brush paused and I heard the snap of her lighter. The soft suck of air into her lungs. She tapped out her ash and set her cigarette in the tray, careful to push it away from me. "I don't suppose if I tell you, it'll be enough to keep you from making the same mistake I made."

I wasn't sure of the answer. Whose mistakes was I really making? Hers or his? "What was he like?" I asked.

She thought for a moment, and I thought I heard her smile. "We were sixteen when we met. He was sweep-youoff-your-feet handsome. And smooth. Charmed the pants right off me. I'd only known him a month when I followed him right out of my parents' house." She pulled at the memories with deep long strokes. "It was a nice house. Safe," she said. "I don't remember my parents ever locking the door." She sounded younger, softer, the raspy edge almost gone. "Then why'd you leave?"