The Burning Edge

odor grew more intense as Shelly pushed the door open.

As they went down the apartment’s hallway, Gannon glimpsed the small kitchen, saw the table cluttered with take-out-food wrappers. A mountain of filthy dishes rose from the sink. Bugs feasted on the garbage strewn on the floor. It was hard to breathe.

“Mr. Shaw!”

As they entered the edge of the small living room, Shelly seized Gannon’s arm and released a guttural wail.

“Jeezus!”

Within a split second Gannon’s skin tingled, his mind struggled to comprehend what he tried to process as an elaborate joke.

It had to be a joke.

Something was waiting for them on a sofa chair. He saw a pair of boots, pants above them. Feet and legs in the boots, a T-shirt, a bare arm with an empty hand curled like a claw; another arm with the hand clamped on the end of a long-barreled gun pointed to where a head would be. A broom handle was inserted into the trigger guard of the gun. The head had been divided by a powerful explosion, the way a cannonball would plow through a pumpkin, propelling glops of cranial tissue in a volcanic eruption to the wall, the ceiling, the sofa arms, the table beside it.

Gannon fought to breathe normally, to think.

Shelly recoiled to the nearest wall, biting her fingers between spurts of, “Oh, Jesus! Oh, Christ!”

Gannon turned to her.

“Listen to me, Shelly. Do not touch anything. Go now to the nearest phone, not the phone here, and alert police. It looks like a suicide.”

She started nodding.

“Do it now, Shelly! I’ll wait here.”

Gannon did not want the 911 call on his cell phone. He wanted the super to make the call. The instant she left, Gannon battled the roaring blood rushing in his ears. His heart was racing as he worked to gain control.

He only had a short time.

The apartment would be sealed once the NYPD arrived.

He reached into his pocket for his digital camera and began taking pictures of everything, including the blood-spattered note on the table. It looked as if it was written in ballpoint.

I never meant for this to happen.I am so sorry, Harlee.

Gannon took pictures of the note.

Then he flipped the camera to video mode. This was his only chance to look for answers about Harlee Shaw, his anonymous caller. Without touching a thing, Gannon recorded all that he could.

When he heard the sirens, he left the apartment and stepped into the hall. Shelly was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, hugging herself and cursing softly between pulls on her cigarette.

32

Queens, New York / Bridgeport, Connecticut

Lisa opened her closet.

Hanger hooks scraped on the rod as she rifled deep into her never-wear stuff and pulled out the dress, still protected in a Spring Breeze Cleaners plastic bag.

A chill shot through her.

She’d only worn it once.

I can’t do this. Yes, you can. You need to do this.

Lisa looked at the dress, swallowed and began rolling off the plastic.

Rita got it for her at Kim’s Dresses in Forest Hills because Lisa couldn’t function at that time. It was a simple cotton wrap, knee length, three-quarter sleeves with a modest neckline.

Black.

Lisa put it on and stood before her full-length mirror, which Bobby had fastened to the inside of the closet door for her. The mirror used to stand in the corner.

How many times did I bug him to screw it to the closet door? Then one day—surprise. Done. He was like that, turning little things into gifts.

The dress fit. In fact, it was a bit loose. She’d lost a few pounds, but it worked. She slid her feet into low- heeled black shoes. Her hands shook a little, giving her trouble with the clasp when she put on her pearl necklace, a birthday present from Bobby.

She got it, adjusted it. When she looked into the mirror the full impact hit her and her knees weakened. She gripped the closet door to steady herself. Of course, this is what she’d worn to Bobby’s funeral.

The official uniform of the grieving widow.

She let the tears come.

Will it ever stop hurting? Help me through this, Bobby, because I have to do what I have to do.

Ethan surfaced in the mirror, watching from her bedroom door.

“What’s going on, Mom?”

She continued facing the mirror, blinking back her tears. “I’m getting my things ready.”

“For what?”

“Vicky and Eve will pick me up in the morning to go to the funeral for one of the people who got hurt.”

“Do you have to go?”

“Yes, to show my respect. It’s just for the day. Rita will be here. Sweetie, we talked about this yesterday. Are you okay? How’s school going?”

“Good.”

“Don’t you have some homework to do while I’m gone?”

“Just geography, we have to draw a map.”

“Better get started today. Now, you haven’t told anybody about us helping the police and stuff.”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Mom, we’re still going up to the cabin like you promised, right? We have to.”

“Yes, Ethan. Nothing’s changed, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So what’s bothering you, then?”

“I don’t want to move to California, Mom. It’d be like leaving Dad forever.”

The hurt in his voice was too much for her and she went to him, dropped to her knees and took him into her arms.

“We can never ever do that.” She put his hand over his heart, covering it with hers. “He will always, always be with us, wherever we go. Your father is part of us, part of you, Taylor and me. Wherever we are, he is with us and will always, always be with us. Do you understand that, honey?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” She smiled, brushing at her tears, kissing him softly, seeing so much of Bobby in his face. “That’s good.”