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thereafter to start fresh in Puerto Rico, with a different wife and new children. That was one way to get over a trauma—cut and run and never look back. His absence from Melanie’s life in the years since had marked her indelibly, and so, in that sense, had the long-ago crime. It was a big reason she did what she did for a living. But on nights like this, she wondered about her career choice. She’d made it out of Bushwick, which hadn’t been easy. Why the hell was she risking everything she’d worked so hard for by putting herself smack in the line of fire?
    To avenge the death of a man she’d cared about, that’s why.
    Agent Papo West had given Melanie a lift home, but she’d declined his offer to come inside and do a security sweep. She lived on the eighth floor of a doorman building and felt confident thatnobody could get in without being noticed. Thankfully so, since her daughter was at home with the babysitter.
    On the surface, all was serene in Melanie’s apartment. But as she got out of her work clothes, she switched on the news, and every channel featured Lester’s murder. The local network affiliates all had the surveillance tape from the alley by now. They were flashing the picture of the man in the dark jacket and asking the public for help in identifying him. Melanie felt her chest tighten and sank down on the edge of her bed. Would they find this guy? Was he out there gunning for her, or was he half a world away by now, on the lam? Wherever the bomber was, the bombing was here with her, and not only on the TV. She couldn’t get the stench of blood and smoke out of her nose. That smell. She’d always remember the smell of Lester’s death. Lester, her friend, her dear friend.
    The babysitter called from the foyer, ready to leave, so Melanie hauled herself up to say good-bye. She emerged to the sound of her two-year-old, Maya, giggling as the nanny, Yolanda Fernandez, lifted her up for a hug and kiss.
    Yolie was in her late forties, a mature woman, not a kid, and somebody who’d had a long career in child development. She had a graduate degree, and had worked as the director of a private nursery school in her native Venezuela. She’d come to the United States for the sake of her journalist husband, who’d fallen from favor with the government, but found that she couldn’t get teaching work without going back to school, which she couldn’t afford. So she was babysitting instead, pouring her substantial wisdom, expertise, and kindheartedness into taking care of Maya. Not only did Yolie—who had no kids of her own—adore Maya, but Maya loved Yolie back more than she’d ever loved any other babysitter.
    It hadn’t been easy to find a nanny as qualified as Yolie. When the last babysitter had had a child of her own and stopped working, Melanie was on the verge of a mini-breakdown, so convinced wasshe that she’d never get a trustworthy replacement. She’d even considered quitting her job, but two things stopped her. The first was doing the math. Steve, her ex, was responsible with the child support; still, Melanie couldn’t afford her mortgage if she quit her job. Second—and this had been harder to face—she didn’t want to quit. Maybe if she’d still been married, but as a divorced woman, Melanie found the thought of giving up her career too scary. Besides, she loved the work. So she’d sat Steve down and had a serious talk with him, and together they’d found more money in the budget for child care. Melanie ended up forking over a hefty fee to the best employment agency in town. She’d run through seven other candidates before Yolie walked in the door. With her calm, intelligent demeanor, her kind eyes, her grown-up, motherly looks, Yolie was the one. Melanie knew instantly. And if she didn’t do housework, well, Melanie could live with dust bunnies so long as her daughter was in good