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 something about how the storm is coming; that I can sur-
 vive it. That I can survive anything, because I’m special,
 and he won’t just stand by and let them kill me. . . .
Is this real?
I’m not sure. I don’t care. All I know is that I feel safe
 for the first time that I can remember. Which isn’t very
 long, I know, but I welcome the feeling just the same. For
 however long it’s going to last.
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    CHAPTER 8
 oices. So many voices in my head. I hear someone talk-
Ving. It’s the red-haired woman, Hodges. She’s talking
 to me. No, about me.
“What rotten timing, officer,” she says. “I was just on my way
 to see La Bohème. But I’m glad you finally caught her. Truly.
Well done, NYPD.”
The red-haired woman is sitting across from me in a dress that
 seems to be made of a hundred yards of purple silk, seed pearls,
 and puffs of air.
Flouncy.
That’s the word that comes to me when I look at her.
She’s clutching a fur wrap around her narrow shoulders and
 holding a sequined purse in her hand. Her hair is pinned up with
 a sparkling hair clip.
We’re in a police interrogation room no bigger than a large
 closet. There’s a table and four chairs. One wall is dark glass—an
74

observation window. I glare at it, daring whoever is behind it to
 face me.
Sitting next to the red-haired woman is a middle-aged cop. His
 holster is visible underneath his suit jacket, and as he leans forward
 to pull his chair closer to the table, the handle of his gun knocks
 against the armrest and a sprinkle of dandruff lands on the table
 in front of him.
The red-haired woman pinches the bridge of her nose like she
 has a terrible headache. “I’m glad we can finally bring this to a
 close. This vandalism has gone on quite long enough, and as usual,
 the media have the story all wrong. She doesn’t look like much of
 a hero to me. What do you think, officer?”
“Nah. Not much of one.”
“So how did you catch her? I’m curious.”
“We got an anonymous tip and just waited at the bottom of
 the crane. Treed her like a squirrel until she finally had to come
 down or fall.”
“Thank you, lieutenant. If it’s all right, do you think I could
 talk to her a moment? Privately, I mean. She might feel more com-
 fortable if it’s just me, and we might be able to get to the bottom of
 all this that much more quickly.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“I’ll be just outside the door if you need me.”
As he gets up, he gives me a look that says, Don’t try any-
 thing or I will stomp on your neck. Then he leaves me with
 this woman who I’ve never seen before—even though she’s acting
 like she knows me.
75
    The red-haired woman rests her elbows on the table and bats
 her eyelashes at me.
“New York City,” she says.
She says nothing else for a long while. I look around the room
 like I can’t be bothered talking to her and finally ask, “What
 about it?”
“New York is soooo welcoming. I would never have believed
 it. Here I am, just a poor girl from Georgia. Yet I’ve come all this
 way to . . . ”
I roll my eyes.
“You should really listen to this, Sarah. It’s important that
 you understand. You see, when people say they grew up poor
 and they’re from Georgia, that’s a very different kind of poor.
A whole other level of poor. Even you and your tenement apart-
 ment and your mother who’s worked as a domestic her whole
 life—even you can’t begin to understand how poor Georgia poor
 really is.”
“Is that right?”
“But I come here to New York, scratch and claw my way up
 through so many terrible, demeaning jobs. You have no idea how
 badly people will treat you when they know you have to take it.
But I learned a few things over the years, and I’ve come to see
 what’s really important.”
I stare at her.
“You see, you have to set a goal and not let anything or anyone
 stand in the way of