City of the Lost Read Free Page A

shit? We get mugged in an alley, and I’m trying to play it cool, and what do you do? Grab the guy. Hell, thank God I
did
run, or I’d have had the shit beat out of me, too.”
    I hit him. Hauled off and whaled the gun at the side of his head. He staggered back. I hit him again. Blood gushed. His hands went to the spot, eyes widening.
    “Fuck! You fucking crazy bitch!”
    “We were not
mugged
,” I said, advancing on him as he backed up, still holding his head. “You were selling dope on some other guy’s turf. Apparently, you knew that. You just didn’t give a shit. I grabbed that guy to save your ass, and you ran. You left me there to die!”
    “I didn’t think they’d—”
    “You left me there.”
    “I just thought—”
    “Thought what? They’d only rape me? A distraction while you escaped?”
    He didn’t answer, but I saw it in his face, that sudden flush right before his eyes went hard.
    “It was your own fault if they did rape you,” Blaine said. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone. Now give me that—”
    He lunged for the gun. I shot him. No thought entered my head as I pulled the trigger. It was like being back in that alley.
    I saw Blaine coming at me. I was already pointing the gun at his chest. So I pulled the trigger.
    The end.

THREE
    “And he died?” the therapist says.
    I swing my legs over the side of the couch and sit up. Her expression is rapt, as if she’s overhearing a drunken confession in a bar.
    “And he died?” she prompts again.
    “I called 911 on his burner phone. By the time I got through, he was gone.”
No, not gone. Dead. Use the proper terminology, Casey. Don’t sugar-coat it.
    “What did you tell the operator?”
    “Dispatcher,” I say, correcting her automatically. “I said I heard a shot, and I raced over to see two men fleeing the scene. One had a gun. I gave descriptions roughly matching two of the guys who beat me. I said I was going to follow them to get a closer look. She told me not to, of course, but I was already hanging up.”
    “You thought it through.”
    Her tone should be at least vaguely accusatory. Instead, it’s almost admiring. She’s been abused in some way. Bullied. Harassed. Maybe even assaulted. She’s fantasized about doing exactly what I did, to whoever hurt her.
    I can’t even take credit for “thinking it through.” A situation presented itself, and I reacted. One therapist explained it as an extreme response to the primal fight-or-flight instinct. Mine apparently lacks the flight portion.
    “What did you do with the gun?” she asks.
    “I wiped it down and threw it in the river. It was never found.”
    “Have you ever pulled the file? As a cop?”
    She doesn’t even bother to say “police officer” now. All formality gone.
    “No, that could flag an alert,” I say. “It didn’t happen here anyway.”
    “Was the boy’s family really connected? Like capital
F
family?”
    She says it as if this is an episode of
The Sopranos
.
    “I guess so,” I say, which is a lie. I know so. The Saratoris aren’t major players, but Blaine’s grandfather, Leo, is definitely part of the Montreal organized crime scene.
    “Don’t you worry they’ll find out and come for revenge?”
    Every day of my life
, I think, but all I grant her is a shrug.
    “Biggest therapist fail ever.” I down a shot of tequila two days later, my first chance to have a drink after work with Diana. “I might as well have confided in that chick over there.” I point at a vacant-eyed girl in the corner. Hooker. Crack addict. If she’s old enough to be in a bar, I’ll turn in my badge.
    “Remind me again why you put yourself through that,” Diana says. “Oh, right. You’re a sadist.”
    “Masochist,” I say. “Also, possibly, a sadist, but in this situation, it’s masochism.”
    She rolls her eyes and shifts on her stool. She’s already sitting on the edge, as if placing her ass—even fully clothed—on the surface might result in lethal