Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery (36 page)

“It wasn’t planned,” he said, as if that made a difference. “If this hadn’t happened, Clyde, I would have wanted—” He stopped himself. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“So am I.”

He nodded. “No doubt.” A beat later: “What about the job?”

I stood up. Let my napkin tumble to the floor. “Can I get back to you?” I asked, though my mind was made up. For once, everything—what to do and what I actually
wanted
to do—were not only crystal clear, but in agreement.

Outside, I dug into my purse for a business card and my phone. Janine Saltz’s assistant put me right through. “If that job offer is still on the table, I’d love to accept.” I wasn’t going to be an executive producer, but at least with Penny Harlich I wouldn’t be in any danger of having my heart broken. Janine and I spoke for twenty minutes, arranging a start date and negotiating some of the finer points of my contract.

Then I hung up and put the phone in my bag. I walked eastward, crossing Park and Lexington, and then north, on Third Avenue. It was cold outside, with a brutal wind coming off the East River, the weak winter sun barely visible behind a swathe of gray clouds. But it felt good to walk. I felt light and free, excited about starting over with a new network and new colleagues. Hell, maybe Penny and I would be friends.

At the corner of Eightieth Street, I looked up. I was at my old building. The red brick facade looked like it had been cleaned, and there was a new green awning overhead. At the building’s entrance stood a man in uniform. He opened the door for a young mother. She was pretty and well dressed and pushed a little girl in a stroller. The tot waived at me with a small, chubby hand as she went by.

And then I remembered something, something small. In the hospital during my recovery, my palms had been bandaged. I’d hurt them holding on to the railing of Alex’s balcony.

My mother.

Her hands.

They’d been chafed, too.

She hadn’t jumped.

Some books come into the world easily and without complication. This book did not, which makes me all the more indebted to everyone who provided support, encouragement and wise counsel while I labored over this love. I am grateful to my fellow writers’ group members—Lauren Lipton, Sandra Waugh, and Melanie Murray—for their sound commentary and good company, and to Brooklyn Assistant District Attorney Joshua Charlton for answering my questions about criminal law. Thank you as well to television producers Howard Rosenberg and Michael Heard for sharing their insider knowledge about the business of broadcast news.

There aren’t enough words to express my gratitude to Cindy Eagan for her editorial notes. You are a master literary surgeon and true friend. I am beholden to Erin McDermott for her careful copyediting and Toni Misthos for her inspired cover design. My children give meaning and bring joy to everything I do, as does my husband, the love of my life, my dearest Max. Thank you for your unwavering belief in me.