The Red Sox lost in the bottom of the ninth, but Logan and I had won.

We were down by two with the bases loaded. We were rounding for home, heading for a fireworks finale. We were-

"Still okay?"

The breadth of his palm pressed against my back. I settled over his hips, curled my fingers in the stiff fabric of his dress shirt.

"It's a lot hotter if you don't talk."

His eyebrows pinched together over a full moon's worth of worry. "But are you?"

"Good," I told him, and pressed my mouth on his. I still saw, I still felt, but it hurt less than I'd imagined. And that was good.

So far, so good. Our anniversary was going to be a good night.

He was patient and I was in love.

*

Water came and balled ice melted and Logan still hadn't slid into the seat opposite. Every time I found my footing to leave, a voice in the back of my mind held me still. Two more minutes. Give two more minutes. After my third glass, the hostess waltzed over. Shadows whispered.

"Miss, this is a restaurant."

"Long Island Burger," I said in a parched voice, sipping air, "and a refill."

She left the pitcher.

I dialed Logan's number again. The screen glow illuminated attentive silhouettes. I shrank against the wall, directed the light into my cheek, and examined our collage. In the leftmost corner he'd tacked a photo from Watson's café. His arm hugged my shoulder. Where was that arm tonight?

Springs chickens like Becky and her flock of exes were allowed no-shows. Steve had canceled on Valentine's Day, but they'd gone out twice and, as she put it, she'd only been "in lust" with him anyway. Two years in and almost two hours late? You called.

Straight to voicemail. Five past eight-thirty and not even a single text.

Cava's chef emerged from the gloom like a newborn star, brow glistening with kitchen heat. She offered to take her break and sit with me because, "an upscale restaurant isn't the place a woman puts that much effort into her outfit only to dine alone." I declined in favor of a blank phone screen. Piteous glances filled my periphery; I couldn't handle her extended inspection, didn't want to be the ant under the magnifying lens.

A short time thereafter she returned ferrying a box covered in monochrome polka dots and trussed in satin ribbons: excessive opulence for a burger. Still, I thanked her and requested the bill. Picking at glued cardboard seams ruined my French manicure, but the state of my nails no longer mattered. Logan and I had never blown each other off without explanation. We always gave warning. Life happened.

But what if something else had happened?

The scene crawled from a dark corner as I sat alternating between picking cardboard and rubbing my ear. Acrid smoke and burnt rubber, a pattering blood rain on pavement, the ragdoll tumble and crack of Logan's skull on the curb. The smoother-than-paint ooze of crimson over a diamond ring, dragging the silver band and all my dreams into a grungy storm drain.

I took a deep breath.

The hostess returned. Silhouetted in light from the staff entrance, she waved a jewel-studded hand toward the collage. Behind her, a busboy waited near a trashcan. "Remnants become property of Cava."

The photographs didn't deserve destruction, but toddling out in skyscraper heels hauling the tokens of a man everyone believed had shown me up?-Yes, he had shown me up; that vision was a perverse imagining of when the car had slammed into me; but even that logic didn't shrink the hard knot in my stomach-During the next few seconds I memorized glossy pictures, lush petals, wax dribbles from sputtering candlesticks, and water rings on one side of the table.

"Do what you want with this crap," I announced, reaching for my debit card. No one here need see the defeated, panicked mess I was becoming.

At her nod, the busboy stepped nearer. "We have his information on record, Ms. Trussell. You're free to go."

Several heads turned in the candlelight.

Tears pooled behind my eyes as I grasped my tissue-less clutch and held my chin high. I used to tease Grandma for keeping spares tucked up her sleeves or down her bra, but she always had one.

"Thank you for your hospitality," I said, and started to walk when the woman's index finger upended the fishing photo. Inner thunder exploded, commanded my hands to the frame. Picture cradled against my grayed dress, I ran the fastest fifty feet of my life in four-inch spikes.

By the time gasoline and cigarettes replaced the warm aroma of melted butter on bread I'd lost a wobble-legged race against time. Damp fire bubbled along my lash line, eroding foundation millimeter by millimeter.

Wait and cross the street. My cheeks swelled.

Wait to the end of the block. Sharp stinging in the corners of my eyes.

Again and again I smashed the elevator button, praying for isolation.

One flight. Carpet and ceiling blurred into wall.

Two flights. Deep breaths. Shuddering breaths.

Three.

With painstaking composure I walked to my car, sat in the front seat, and locked the door. My right hand flung the picture into the passenger seat while the left grabbed my cell.

The call connected. Silence. Click.

My fingers flew to redial. One ring, two.

"Hey, this is Logan. Leave one."

"Answer your goddamned phone!" I slapped the horn. Roosting pigeons scattered. A young girl and her much older boyfriend glared. I swore at them, at her, the little blonde idiot about to make a huge mistake. Not since the fire alarm went off the night before an 8AM bio practical had I been so vexed, if that was the word. It was impossible to choose an emotion and decide to be exclusively that.

The message was still recording. I wiped my cheek, sucked in a calming breath. "Logan, it's Allie. I'm headed home from Cava. Call as soon as you get this. I need to know you're okay."

In case of a voice mail issue, I sent a more or less polite text then peeled out of the lot. Never bothered taking off my heels.

Had choice or chance left me alone?

Charles.

The name surfaced between angular flashes of streetlight, dredged from the depths of a water-logged mind. Charles Linviogh, Logan's roommate and best friend since second grade. If someone knew Logan's whereabouts, it'd be him.

He didn't pick up. I headed to their apartment.

Somehow, I avoided tickets for banking an illegal U-turn and speeding. My mantra for the trip kept my eyeline dry, but when the engine hum died and I flipped down the overhead visor, a streaky mermaid stared back. After a few pitiful dabs, I snatched the purse and, a trivial afterthought in the mental murk, our picture.

Tonight, as I crossed the crumbling concrete threshold, the grounds were quiet. The Texan Tiger was curled away in his den, slurred caterwauling a belch-broken melody behind door number two. I crept past him and through a drafty, unpleasant odor: a combination of cat pee and whiskey that had long ago seeped into the halls and lingered on through half-hearted removal attempts.

Balancing against sticky pineapple wallpaper, I yanked off the stilettos and sprinted five flights of sagging stairwell and didn't stop running until my fist hit door 503.

"Charles?" I called. "Logan? You guys home?"

No answer.

"You home, Charles?" The door shook under my fist's assault.

A woman's screech echoed through the apartment opposite. Lottie May, the neighborhood harpy, stirred within her nest of TV dinners and pop culture trinkets. "Shut up, shut up!" she screeched. "He's doing the roses!"

Charles' weekends began after 10PM; to beat out his shower radio I needed to yell. Lottie could stand to have her Bachelor binge-watch disturbed for two minutes. I continued banging.

"Hey!" Lottie rasped next, "Call the cops. Some kid's bitch is hollering to hell."

Biting my knuckles, I crossed the hall and listened against her door. She'd ratted on me to her boyfriend, but from his tone he wasn't up to doing anything about it. Satisfied, I turned back to Logan's door and pressed my ear to the grubby paneling.

"Charles?"

Only the fridge hummed back.

Curious, I stooped and checked for lights. Darkness oozed through the crack.

"Shit," I said, straightening. "The one time I want an audience with the King of Fashionably Late, he leaves early."

My forehead thumped softly against the lock stile. They'd changed locks a couple months back. Logan was so stressed I'd never pressed him about creating a spare. At this point, I could either go home or camp outside their door all night.

Or, I could stop being a panicky idiot and pick it. Use the one good skill to come from Josh's company.

When I tested the door, however, the knob clicked and rotated beneath my palm. The back of my throat dried. I pushed my chosen bobby pin back into my braid.

Logan was missing. Charles gone early. The apartment was silent, unlocked. The door seemed to radiate with cold, nightmarish expectation. Did I really want to open it alone, did I really want to find out if that trickle of sweat down the nape of my neck was justified?

Heart so high my ears pulsed, I toed the door wide and flipped the switch.

Light bounced off dinged floorboards. Bare eggshell walls gleamed. Striated kitchen laminate lay exposed, devoid of glasses, cups, and coffee filters. After setting my belongings on the side table by the door, I poked my head down the hall into Charles' empty room, then Logan's. Nothing signaled the presence of two college guys: no trash, television, snacks, or posters. Someone had stripped the apartment to its basic furnishings and standard kitchen units.

Uncertainty, not fear, teased my stomach. Was I relieved or concerned Logan's disappearance appeared intentional?

Spurs jingled through the stairwell. There was no mistaking the strained grunts of a man possessing the athleticism of a beached walrus. Ed Wahler was an animal of close range harm. As long as you kept your distance, checked periodically to make sure he hadn't moved, you'd be fine.

"What's all this commotion?"

I lifted my head at his tetchy slur of a voice, realized dimly the front door was ajar. On any other night I might've held my breath and waited him out in a closet, but I needed my keys, wallet, and phone, couldn't let them fall into his grubby paws.

Upon retirement from wrestling, Ed Wahler had moved to Boston to be with family, which happened to include a large inheritance of city assets from a deceased mum who, according to the Boston Globe, had no business dying so quick and sudden.

"One of them bitches was here, hollering for Charles."

"Sure it's for him?"

"I know what I heard, Ed."

"Right, sorry. I'll be investigating. Thank ya, ma'am." The rattle of spurs on rotting wood intensified. Inches from my hand, the knob creaked side to side. The stains of his yellowed wife-beater filled the seam of my escape. "Still on for later?"

"Still got that bottle of Jack? Then you come on over, sugar. Oh, shut it, Harry. You'll be out cold by-"

I dove under the table.

The door banged open in a hail of plaster. The overpowering stench of sweat and moonshine sent tipsy thoughts buzzing between my ears. I held a wrist against my nose and breathed in the remnants of my perfume, breathed deep and saw the bad bounce my cell had taken three feet away on the open floor.

Standing beside the table in cowhide boots, Ed Wahler surveyed the flat while citrus-induced memories pulled the lever to start my waterworks. Choking a sob under duress was as difficult as stopping a runny nose at a restaurant table.

Then the sweet spring of Vivaldi filled the air.

The man shut the door real quiet and brushed the light switch off. In the blue velvet darkness the deadbolt turned next, and with it came the mechanical whirr of a revolver cylinder.

"Safety's off," he announced over the violin concerto. His boot crunched the phone. He kicked it. It banged off the wall near the dining room table. The music stopped.

My heart thumped to his erratic footfall shuffle through the dining room, then the kitchen. Every time I tried for the door, he'd turn as if he knew, as if some feline intuition had sensed me. He never went down the back hall. I gave up as he returned beside the table, pinwheeling at a still night's pace, grumbling to himself as I held a hand over my mouth to keep my breath from fogging corroded rowels.

A shoddy piece of furniture, Logan's plywood junk collector, was now preventing me from becoming Boston PD's next crime scene.

And then a fist punched the tabletop.

Leaping out of your skin was physically impossible, but my skeleton damn tried. My head banged the table as he bellowed nonsense about a woman named Mary.

"Gotcha!" he crowed as I gripped one of my heels, ready to jam it in his foot if I only knew where the gun was pointed. Club fingers clenched the under-hang seam; and beside them, the dark eye of the barrel wavered cold against my shoulder. He stepped back. "Come on out, ya frisky weasellette."

Hands stretched for the ceiling, I rose.

"Oh," he said at the sight of me. "Oh, my Mary! Safety is definitely off."

"No," I said, tugging my scrunched dress down over my legs. "It's Allie, Allie Stevens. Logan's girlfriend. We met last March. Cat in the laundry room? I'm here looking for him. Know where he's at?"

His gestured with the gun. "Shouldn't you?"

I flashed a nervous frown. "I'm not psychic, Ed."

Ed Wahler paused, chubby finger resting against the trigger. "Way I see it, what ya are is trespassing. And if you wanna go alive, you'll be letting me do the naming. Don't damn care what the good Lord calls ya in the daylight. Sun ain't shining here. Ya feel me, Mary? No, supposin' you ain't yet. Why not come on over then, give us a squeeze?"

"No," I said hoarsely, and stepped toward the kitchen. "No."

The Texan Tiger careened backward. The spurs scraped the door. He flicked the gun casually at my feet. "You playing intruder then, girl?"

"N-no," I mumbled. "I told you who I am."

Muscles rolled in fat shrugged. "You got more words than a name, I reckon. Why not use some? Bet you got pipes like a songbird, Mary, not like Madame Cowbell next door."

"Okay," I said, nervously smoothing the front of my dress. Blocked from escape, feeling the world start spinning, I inched against the kitchen counter, back, back, back until the lower cabinet handles pressed my ass. "Okay, okay, okay. Roleplay. I'll do it. But you've got to tell me first, where are Chuck and Logan?"

"Fuck should I know? Ponied full cash for the lease."

"Thanks," I began uncertainly. "Now if I play, you swear you won't shoot?"

"Won't call no cops neither." His eyes shone with the miserable yellow glaze of liquor-lost decades. "Conditional, 'course, on iffin you play."

I nodded, pulled my braid over one shoulder and set a shaking hand to my hip. The apartment was empty, nothing for me to brain him with. Play with him it was. "You like my new dress?"

"And the hair," he agreed breathily. "Turn 'round."

A challenging look passed between us, and then I turned, slow enough for him to get a good viewing, fast enough that he couldn't pounce.

My chattering teeth managed a smile. "Thoughts?"

The revolver returned to its holster beside a pack of cigarettes. Swiping his hand over his balding scalp, he advanced with the self-assurance of a tranquilized tiger.

"I've missed ya," he rumbled, one hand on the holster, the other beckoning.

When I didn't move, he came on like a freight train, a ripple of weight and heavy impact. A last second twist saved me from getting pinned to the fridge. My hand rose. Slimy lips squashed against my palm. The sucker detached with a wet smack and a disgruntled, "Hey now!"

Panic was a python's relentless squeeze, needled fangs crushing my heart. The sour venom of Josh's kiss welled in my mouth. "Take it easy," I cooed at the Tiger, wiping my trembling hand on his shirt. And I spoke the words that haunted me because they were the only words I had. All I could think was it was happening again. It was happening again. I can't let it happen again but I could hear Josh's voice and he was telling me to say, "We want to do this right."

Ed Wahler pushed forward. His hand limped along my forearm, leaving a damper trail than his tongue. I shrieked. "What hey now?" he asked.

"It's not right," I gasped, feeling strength pour from my legs. Sweat flushed my neck. "It's not right. It's not right."

"Right?" His breath rolled hot on my neck. He grabbed my elbow, jerked my body into his stinking folds. "Right? Ain't no right way to fuck!"

The room dipped sideways. I slipped, banged my arm against the counter. I tried to stand, run, but he pounced.

We went down together. His weight crushed everything below my hips. His hand grabbed my wrist and he was strong. He was fat but he was a man, a tiger, and he was strong. His hand caught the edge of my dress, tore the seam at my armpit.

I sat up, smacked him hard across the cheek. He howled like a wild thing but when he moved to avoid a second strike he eased on my leg. I jerked it free, smashed my heel into his shoulder and with a soft cry wrenched the other leg loose. One chubby hand closed on my ankle, yanked me toward him. I kicked again. His hold slipped. I slid across the floor, my own woman, and stumbled back to my feet.

He rolled onto filthy knees, reaching for the holster. I ducked around the dining room table, flinging chairs in my wake.

Blackout drapes no longer concealed the living room window. Silver light pooled around my feet. The moon's cratered belly peeked between fire escape bars, where Logan and I spent summer nights city-stargazing.

Ed Wahler's shadow eclipsed mine in the dirty glass.

"That's good, Mary." His body swung forward like an obese pendulum. He ripped me away from the pane and spun me back toward him. Yellowed eyes flanked the gun barrel drawn even with my bangs. "Fire's burning hot now."

"I want you burning," I agreed, one hand behind my back fumbling for the sticky latch, hoping tonight it wasn't beyond my strength. "You're no use to me cold."

The barrel tottered against my chin. The contemplative way his knuckles rubbed his throat gave me goosebumps.

"Hey," he said abruptly. His fingers tapped the firearm's strap. "Want me tell you 'bout your man Logan? Might could have ya feeling better 'bout this situation."

The latch slammed free. My nails rattled against the pane, which creaked a scant inch wide and stuck.

"Shit," I muttered.

"He was fucking a whore there on the table, right there with his buddy watching. Man's crooked as the dog's leg he was humping." Thin lips split into a rotten smile, ten-toothed and full of malice. "Let's get back at 'em."

I propped my elbow on the sill to heave the window into a human-sized portal, conscious of his looming body. "I need some air."

When he shook his head, I slid my hand over the bump of his belly and down beside the holster. Wahler stood in a boozy stupor, yellow eyes following my careful progression. I tugged a cigarette loose and lifted it to my lips. "Air," I repeated, this time adding, "Fifteen minutes, big boy, alright? Gimme a goddamn light."

It was the shock of the request that probably sent him fishing for a dinged lighter in his pocket. He was stupid, and drunk, and likely hadn't expected his quarry to bark off a command. I took a pensive, slow drag, the mellowed spice an experience long-forgotten, not since I'd been trying to hang with Josh back behind the gym, then offered Wahler a taste. He took it clumsily, setting the gun back into the holster when my hand ran along his hairy arm.

His eyes fluttered closed. A puff of smoke wafted toward the darkened ceiling. He passed it back. I took the cig carefully from his hand, studied the smoldering burn, then drove it into his neck. He roared, clutching his throat, staggering backward. I gave him a hard shove to the floor and sprang for the window.

"Mary!" he shouted. "You died!"

In a thunderous flash, my nose smashed into the steel landing. A bullet ricocheted off the adjacent building. Ears ringing, I scrambled a level below and shrank motionless against the brick, afraid to wipe my bloody chin.

Between the shadows of upper grates and broken glass, the revolver shone two-toned silver. After a minute of conducting his arms to the tune of profanities, Ed Wahler withdrew. I engaged in deep breathing exercises, the kind they taught in high school theology. This time, however, I didn't meditate on an encounter with Jesus: I prayed the renter below Logan didn't open their curtains.

At the second floor, an eight foot gap extended from the bottom rung to the alley: an easy drop if I hung off the edge. Then it was a matter of reaching the car and getting the hell out of Dodge before he'd labored down the five flights and stumbled into the correct alley.

I'd reached the third level before my feet barked about the icebox treads and I remembered.

My purse, stilettos, keys-everything remained inside.