At the bottom, under a folded scarf, one more photograph.
A Polaroid. Faded. Two men.
Frank. Younger than I ever knew him. Mustache thicker. NYPD uniform. Brooklyn pier.
I stare at it.
My brain betrays me.
Vanilla.
Christ.
My brain picks now to remember the exact sound Nadia made when she came apart on my tongue.
This is not useful.
This is, in fact, the least useful moment for my body to remember anything.
I force myself to look at the second man.
The other man is Greek.
The same cold in the eyes I saw on the operative in the warehouse. Heavy gold ring on his right hand. The hand shaking Frank's.
The cuff of his other sleeve has ridden up half an inch.
The tattoo is not visible. The angle is wrong. But I know what is under that cuff. Black ink. Anchor. Serpentine.Σ. Π.
The mark I have been seeing on dead men's wrists since this week started.
The man in this photograph paid Frank.
Frank Donovan. The man who taught me to be a cop. Who told me at age eight that the job was the only thing that would never lie to me.
There are dirty cops, Seanie. Don't ask me whether I approve. Ask me whether it works.
He was talking about himself.
He was warning me about himself.
I sitat the kitchen table. The coffee gets cold.
She knew what that phrase meant when the operative said it. She went white on the porch. She knew it was about me before I understood there was a me for it to be about. She sent me into the trees anyway. Gave me back the tracker. Saidget outin the same voice she saidget uptwo nights before.
Get upwas a woman keeping me alive.
Get outwas a woman keeping me alive in a different way.
I am going to find out who the Greek in this photograph is. I am going to find out whatthe lost heir livesmeans. I am going to find out what she was keeping me out of.
And then I am going to walk back into it.
The phone rings.
Unknown number.
I let it ring three times before picking up.
