Regrets Only Read Free Page A

file.
Nineteen-year-old black male. Multiple stab wounds. Gang related? DOA at Thomas Jefferson Hospital.
    “I’m sorry. I can’t. Perhaps another time,” she added before she could stop herself.
Lucy O’Malley
, she heard her mother chastise.
How dare you be suggestive?
She could still envision Mrs. O’Malley with a checkered apron tied tight around her waist, shaking a finger in her face.
A proper girl waits for a proper invitation.
Even at a ninth-grade Sadie Hawkins, her mother had drilled it into her brain that she couldn’t be the one to ask a boy to dance.
    “A patient calls?” Archer said.
    “No. I’m not a doctor.”
    “What do you do?” He sounded disappointed.
    “I’m a cop. Homicide Unit.” Her new assignment sounded strange. The novelty was still hard to believe.
    “You?” He laughed. “Now that’s a first. With looks like yours, why in the world would you ever do that?”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” She felt a surge of rage. How many times had she heard derogatory comments about being a police officer? The litany of insults—the suggestion that she was a public servant punching the clock as she waited for a retirement pension, the constant innuendos of corruption, as if she couldn’t own a cashmere sweater on a law enforcement salary, the snide remarks that she simply was trying to meet some hunk for a husband—made her see red. Her thighs didn’t rub together from too many doughnuts; her only criminal activity was jaywalking; and she logged longer, more intense hours than almost everyone she’d ever met. That she came from a legacy of honest, good cops was a source of tremendous pride. What did this yuppie bar owner know anyway?
    “You just . . . you don’t strike me . . .” Archer stammered. He eyed her up and down. “You just don’t look like the type.”
    She was about to explain that being five-three and ninety-nine pounds had nothing to do with her ability to investigate and apprehend drug dealers, rapists, and now killers, but stopped. Any explanation sounded defensive, something she certainly was not. “Apparently for the same reason a person like you is drawn to the hospitality industry,” she said instead, relieved that she hadn’t confessed to anything remotely suggestive of attraction. “Going against character.”
    With that she hopped off the stool, shoved the BlackBerry back in her pocket, and buttoned her overcoat. As she walked away, she thought she heard him call out, “There’s a wonderful poet coming Tuesday night. Eight o’clock. Maybe you’d take the drink then.”
    But she wasn’t really listening.

2
    Saturday, January 11th 9:17 p.m .
    F oster hated the putrid smell of his own sweat. It was one thing to perspire from physical performance—he’d been on the lacrosse team and still occasionally lifted weights. There was a cleansing sensation to that, a purging by osmosis. But he felt entirely different tonight as he sat behind the barn. Despite the freezing wind, his shirt stuck to the clammy skin of his underarms and back. Beads of moisture congregated on his forehead, his upper lip, and behind his knees. Even his toes slipped in his Adidas sneakers. Anxiety and fear made his synapses fire too rapidly, leaving him drenched in sweat. He needed to peel off his damp flesh and escape, abandoning the body that tortured him and the soul that tormented him. Fortunately that was exactly what he was about to do.
    He adjusted his position and felt a jagged rock dig into his coccyx, causing a shooting pain up his spine. Quick shallow breaths helped dissipate his agony, but he still felt a throbbing sensation. He crossed his legs in front of him and leaned back against the red-painted building.
    Inside he could hear the horses, Fern and Jumpstart, as they snorted, stomped, and rearranged themselves in their stalls, settling down for the night. The dressage horse was black with white socks; the other—a chestnut brown—had retired years ago but