Page 45 of Plain Sight

“Of course, angel. You can fly wherever you want.”

Lily yawns. “Fly me to bed, then.”

Lily’s sound asleep when I leave the penthouse just before midnight and make my way north.

The address for Malcolm Walsh is in Wakefield, in the Bronx.

The street, unlike Mason’s place, is not asleep when I get there. People come in and out of bars on the ground floors of the buildings. A yellow cab pulls up to the curb and lets out five guys in jeans and T-shirts.

I am so fucking alive right now. So fucking aware of the summer wind and the baked smell of the concrete and the little gusts of alcohol and garbage from a nearby dumpster.

I’m so alive with the knife in a cool sheath on my belt.

I’m so alive with how I’m about to become a murderer.

My stomach turns over at the thought of killing someone—person, animal—but I grit my teeth and ignore the hell out of it.

My parents died fifteen years ago. It’s easy enough to make the leap from a kidnapping and almost-murder to a real murder. My parents were on Malcolm Walsh’s resume. How fucked up is that?

Jamie, sweetheart, you need to rest.

“I’m wide awake, Mom.”

A guy brushing past me on the sidewalk gives me a look. I give him a friendly wave.

Jamie. You don’t need to do this for me.

“It’s not just for you.” I am…less concerned than I should be that these conversations are happening so often. It’s not like the night by the beach. Or maybe it is like the night on the beach, and I’m too far gone to feel the difference. Either way, I have bigger problems, like finding and killing Malcom Walsh.

His building is like the others around it. Bricks. Crumbling window casings. Window shades pulled down to different heights. I want to charge in and knock on doors like some superhero cop, but I don’t.

I’m going to be responsible.

I’m going to watch first, then make my move.

A bar and a diner huddle on the ground floor. Both of them have plenty of people inside, coming and going.

Holy fuck. God does exist. Because there’s Malcolm Walsh, posted up at the bar. I didn’t even have to go inside. I recognize him from his old license photo. The bastard hasn’t tried to disguise himself.

Should I…pray?

I don’t get the chance. Walsh pushes some money across the bar and leaves, checking in all directions as he exits. He doesn’t see me. I hold my breath, because if he goes into his apartment, I’ll have to⁠—

Nope.

He’s on the move.

I follow him to the next block, where he ducks into another bar. Bar-hopping? Is this murderous prick bar-hopping? I guess if he’s drunk, it’ll be easier to kill him.

Jamie. Don’t.

“Mom. It’ll be fine.”

You will not be fine.

“I’ll be so much better after this.”

Let’s sit and talk about it.