"She used to play right out there," Faith said, pointing to the sidewalk beneath the rain-dappled window. "Hopscotch, hide and seek. She was a happy little girl."
Jessica thought of Sophie. Was her daughter a happy little girl? She thought so. She hoped so.
Faith turned to look at her. She may have been gaunt, but her eyes were clear. Her hair was clean and shiny, pulled back into a ponytail. Her color was better than the first time they'd met. "Do you have children?" she asked.
"Yes," Jessica said. "One."
"A daughter?"
Jessica nodded. "Her name is Sophie."
"How old is she?"
"She's three."
Faith Chandler moved her lips slightly. Jessica was sure the woman had silently said three, perhaps recalling the toddling Stephanie running through these rooms; Stephanie singing her Sesame Street songs over and over, never quite hitting the same note twice; Stephanie asleep on this very couch, her little pink face angelic in slumber.
Faith lifted the pot of tea. Her hands were shaking, and Jessica considered helping the woman, then decided against it. When tea was poured, and sugar stirred, Faith continued.
"My husband left us when Stephie was eleven years old, you know. He left a house full of debts, too. Over a hundred thousand dollars."
Faith Chandler had allowed Ian Whitestone to buy her daughter's silence for the past three years, silence about what happened on the set of Philadelphia Skin. As far as Jessica knew, there were no laws broken. There would be no prosecution. Was it wrong to take the money? Perhaps. But it was not Jessica's place to judge. These were shoes in which Jessica hoped never to walk.
On the end table was Stephanie's high school graduation picture. Faith picked it up, ran her fingers gently over her daughter's face.
"Let a broken-down old waitress give you a piece of advice." Faith Chandler looked at Jessica, a gentle sorrow in her eyes. "You may think you have a long time with your daughter, a long time until she grows up and hears the world calling her. Believe me, it will happen before you know it. One day the house is full of laughter. The next day it's just the sound of your heart."
A lone teardrop fell onto the glass picture frame.
"And if you have the choice between talking to your daughter, or listening," Faith added. "Listen. Just… listen."
Jessica didn't know what to say. She could think of no response to this. No verbal response. Instead, she took the woman's hand in hers. And they sat in silence, listening to the summer rain.
Jessica stood next to her car, keys in hand. The sun had come out again. The streets of South Philadelphia steamed. She closed her eyes for a moment, and despite the punishing summer heat, the moment took her to some very dark places. The death mask of Stephanie Chandler. The face of Angelika Butler. Declan Whitestone's tiny, helpless hands. She wanted to stand beneath the sun for a long time, hoping the sunlight would disinfect her soul.
"Are you all right, Detective?"
Jessica opened her eyes, turned to the voice. It was Terry Cahill.
"Agent Cahill," she said. "What are you doing here?"
Cahill wore his standard blue suit. He no longer wore the sling, but Jessica could see, by the cant of his shoulders, that he was still in pain. "I called the station house. They said you might be down here."
"I'm fine, thanks," she said. "How are you feeling?"
Cahill feigned an overhand pitch. "Like Brett Myers."
Jessica assumed that this was a baseball player. If it wasn't boxing, she was clueless. "You're back at the agency?"
Cahill nodded. "I finished my stint with the department. I'll be writing up my report today."
Jessica could only wonder what would be in it. She decided not to ask. "It was good working with you."
"Same here," he said. He cleared his throat. It appeared he was not very good at these sorts of things. "And I want you to know that I meant what I said. You are one hell of a cop. If you'd ever consider the bureau as a career, please give me a call."
Jessica smiled. "You on commission or something?"
Cahill returned the smile. "Yeah," he said. "If I bring in three new recruits I get a clear plastic badge protector."
Jessica laughed. The sound seemed foreign to her. It had been awhile. The lighthearted moment passed quickly. She glanced up the street, then turned back. She found Terry Cahill staring at her. He had something to say. She waited.
"I had him," he finally said. "I didn't take him down in that alley, and a baby and a young girl nearly died."
Jessica had suspected he felt this way. She put a hand on his arm. He didn't draw away. "No one blames you, Terry."
Cahill looked at her for a few moments in silence, then turned his gaze toward the river, to the heat-shimmered waters of the Delaware. The moment drew out. It was clear that Terry Cahill was gathering a thought, searching for the right words. "Do you find it easy to go back to your life after something like this?"
Jessica was a little taken aback by the intimacy of the question. But she was nothing if she was not bold. She wouldn't be a homicide cop if it had been any other way. "Easy?" she asked. "No, not easy."
Cahill glanced back at her. For an instant, she saw vulnerability in his eyes. In the next instant, the look was replaced with the steel she had long associated with those who choose law enforcement as a way of life.
"Please give Detective Byrne my regards," Cahill said. "Tell him… tell him I'm glad his daughter was returned safely."
"I will."
Cahill hesitated briefly, as if to say something else. Instead, he touched her hand, then turned and walked up the street, toward his car, and the city beyond.
Frazier's Gym was an institution on Broad Street in North Philadelphia. Owned and operated by former heavyweight champion Smokin' Joe Frazier, it had produced a number of champions over the years. Jessica was one of only a handful of women who trained there.
With her ESPN2 bout set for early September, Jessica began her training regimen in earnest. Every sore muscle in her body reminded her how long she had been out of it.
Today she would get into the sparring ring for the first time in months.
As she stepped between the ropes, she thought about her life as it was. Vincent had moved back in. Sophie had made a WELCOME HOME sign out of construction paper worthy of a Veterans Day parade. Vincent was on probation in Casa Balzano, and Jessica made sure he knew it. So far, he had been the model husband.
Jessica knew that reporters were waiting for her outside. They had wanted to follow her into the gym, but you just don't walk into this place. A pair of young guys who trained here-twin heavyweight brothers who tipped in around 220 each-had gently persuaded them to wait outside.
Jessica's sparring partner was a girl from Logan, a twenty-year-old dynamo named Tracy "Bigg Time" Biggs. Bigg Time had a record of 2–0, both knockouts, both coming within the first thirty seconds of the fight.
Jessica's great-uncle Vittorio-a former heavyweight contender himself, a man who held the distinction of once having knocked down Benny Briscoe, at McGillin's Old Ale House, no less-was her trainer.
"Go easy on her, Jess," Vittorio said. He slipped her headgear on, fastened her chin strap.
Easy? Jessica thought. The kid was built like Sonny Liston.
As she waited for the bell, Jessica thought about what had happened in that dark room, about making the split-second decision that took a man's life. There had been a moment, in that low and horrible place, when she had doubted herself, when the quiet violence of fear had owned her. She imagined it would always be this way.