At six that morning, Damien had bought a café.
It sat across the street from Lydia's building, and by 8:15 it had a sign taped to the door: CLOSED FOR A PRIVATE EVENT. The owner had gone home with a check. The barista had stayed, paid for the whole day, and was polishing the same glass for the third time.
Aria sat at the window table in a baseball cap and sunglasses, her hands around an oat latte. Across the street, the building was all brick and black steel, with a doorman under the awning and a row of bay trees in planters. Lydia's rental was on the ninth floor.
At 8:20, Damien's phone rang. He set it on the table between them on speaker.
"They'll book her at the precinct," Julian said. "Arraignment this afternoon, downtown. The DA is charging murder in the second degree."
"Will the judge keep her?" Aria asked.
