school. He approved. But at the same time, he expected all his employees to work hard, guard the money, and keep the peace. Sometimes that was easier said than done.
Prajit turned the corner of the first aisle, his hands raised in a pleading gesture. ‘Gentlemen, please,’ he said. ‘Take your argument outside. If you wish to make a purchase . . .’
‘If you weesh to make a purchase,’ one of the punks mocked him in a singsong voice.
Prajit raised his hands in an attitude of surrender. ‘Please sir. Just bring your items to the counter. I don’t wish to have any problems.’
The thug was not as young as Prajit had first thought. He had a heavy shadow of a beard, and bright, angry eyes.
The white guy in the blue shirt turned on the punk. ‘You think you’re funny?’ he demanded. ‘This man here is just trying to make a living. He doesn’t get paid enough to deal with the likes of you. Why don’t you do us all a favor and beat it?’
Prajit was shocked and oddly warmed. He had misjudged the customer in the blue shirt. Here this man was defending him. Just when you thought you knew about people, it turned out you could be all wrong.
The guy in the blue shirt tried to push past the smaller of the hoodied thugs. The other one yelled a curse at him. The customer did not reply, but flipped his middle finger at them.
The bigger guy pulled a gun out from under his sweatshirt.
Prajit’s eyes widened. He instantly remembered the words of his employer. ‘If they have a gun, bow to the gun.’
‘Please fellows,’ Prajit pleaded. ‘Let’s calm down. I don’t want to have to call the police.’ The shorter, quieter one turned and looked him in the eyes. Too late, Prajit realized that he had made a mistake. Too late. His words stuck in his throat. ‘No, no,’ he tried to say. ‘I mean no offense . . . !’ And then, he heard the shot.
ONE
The sound of a noontime television anchor chirping about her upcoming guests drifted into the bathroom as Shelby Sloan leaned across the wide, marble-topped sink toward the mirror, applying her mascara. She had slept late, run some errands, and taken a spinning class at the gym. Now, she was showered and just about ready to depart. Shelby stared at her expertly made-up face critically. At forty-two, Shelby’s skin was radiant and unlined. Her thick, shiny blonde hair curved smoothly to her shoulders and remained one of her best features. In her twenties, when she was a single, working mother, barely able to buy groceries and pay the rent, she had always assumed that she would look like an old hag by the age of forty, but, despite years of work, night school, child-rearing and too little sleep, the passage of time had been kind to her appearance.
A knock at the front door of her condo startled her. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
Probably Jen, she thought, with a last minute question or two. Her best friend, an interior decorator named Jennifer Brandon, worked at home and lived on the same floor of the building as Shelby. She was going to water Shelby’s plants and take in the mail while Shelby was at Chloe’s. Both single, they spent a lot of time in one another’s company, by design or default, for an evening of wine and dinner. Shelby smoothed down her cashmere sweater over her pants. ‘Coming,’ she called out. She glanced at her watch. Chloe was a stickler for punctuality. She needed to get going.
Shelby opened the door to find Talia Winter, her older sister, standing there. Talia never bothered with pleasantries. ‘I’m on my lunch hour. I called Markson’s,’ she announced, naming the Philadelphia department store where Shelby was the chief women’s wear buyer. ‘They said you were on vacation.’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Shelby. ‘Today is the first day.’
‘You didn’t answer your phone.’
Shelby sighed and stepped aside. It was true that she often did not answer when she saw her sister’s name on the caller ID. Talia only called about one subject – their mother, Estelle. Talia still lived in the run-down family house in Northeast Philadelphia with their alcoholic mother, who had, six months ago, been diagnosed with end stage liver disease. She was not eligible for a transplant because she still refused to give up drinking. With no family or home of her own, Talia had spent her adult life catering to the