In the front seat of our realtor’s car, Bill nodded along with the tick of the turn signal.
“What’d I tell you?” He pushed up the sleeves of his cream-colored pullover and glanced back at me. “The commute isn’t bad at all.”
In the driver’s seat, Jeanine’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “It’s practically the same as what you do now once you factor in the walk to public transportation and train delays.”
“It’s Saturday,” I pointed out. “We’re not dealing with traffic.”
Jeanine watched the stoplight through her windshield. “It’s not much heavier than this,” she assured me.
I kept my doubts to myself. We’d been at this an hour, and neither Bill nor Jeanine could be budged from their optimism over the suburbs. The neighborhoods our realtor had for us were either “charming” or “up-and-coming,” and all in a “desirable school district.” The commute was “a straight shot,” the location “a tradeoff for restful sleep.” Bill had never had trouble sleeping in the city until recently. Now, he was suddenly fed up with noise from our upstairs neighbors, the street lamps and car horns, the long lines, impossible parking, loitering twenty-something students . . .
“Along with Evanston, this suburb has one of the lowest crime rates in the metro area,” Jeanine said. She’d been spouting off facts since we’d gotten in her car. “That’s why I picked it after hearing what you’ve been through. I have a great feeling about this next house.”
Bill glanced back at me. “You’ll be safe here.”
I looked out my open window at quiet streets, save the almost imperceptible rustling of foliage. Grand, old-fashioned houses sat comfortably in their foundations, settled from decades of existence. Lower crime rates weren’t enough to convince me I belonged here. I’d moved to the city out of college around seven years ago, and it still awed me each day. There was always some new performance to see, activity to try, cuisine to taste. I still stumbled across gems on a daily basis. Buying a home here meant less variety. It meant backyards, a second car, peaceful nights to cook dinner and fall asleep to the TV. It was as if we’d hopped a spaceship from the bustling sidewalks of Chicago to Pleasant Street, Oak Park. What did people even do out here?
Jeanine accelerated for a green light, driving us by a playground with three strollers parked at the entry gate.
Oh, right. That was what people did around here—they raised children.
If the suburbs felt like another planet to me, the concept of kids was downright alien. Bill wanted them, the sooner the better. I, on the other hand, had reservations.
This was hardly the first time Bill had tried to get me to see houses, but I’d always been able to come up with convincing excuses to get out of it.
Until Mark Alvarez.
“I still can’t get over that story.” Jeanine shook her head, the needle of her speedometer hovering at twenty-six miles an hour. Champagne blonde, the same color of her SUV, streaked her brown hair. “The gang violence in this city has really gotten out of hand. I don’t blame you for wanting out after your attack.”
How could I argue with my safety? For Bill, having Mark Alvarez—an aggrieved family member of a convict Bill had put away—show up at our apartment was the last straw. We’d never personally faced violence in the city, but as an attorney, Bill had been exposed to the worst of it. He knew what happened in Chicago’s underbelly, and now that it’d reached his doorstep, he wasn’t taking any chances.
Lou Alvarez had been one of Bill’s final assignments before he’d left the DA’s office. He’d called the double homicide one of the ugliest and most difficult cases he’d worked on—but it’d been worth it. Lou was now serving a life sentence without parole for first-degree murder. His gang affiliation had hurt his case—and it also put Bill and his former colleagues in danger of retaliation.
What would Lou’s brother Mark have done if he’d encountered Bill instead? “It could’ve been worse,” I said.
“Worse?” Bill asked. “Well, I suppose he could’ve shot you down right there on the sidewalk.”
I grimaced. “He didn’t even have a gun.”
“You don’t know that. The guys at my old office have a pool going over how many counts we’ll nail him for, including whether he’ll be carrying when we pick him up.”
“It must be non-stop action over there,” Jeanine said.
As Bill did his best to shock her with overblown tales from the Cook County crypt, I removed my cell from my handbag to check my e-mail. A subject line from the night before caught my eye.
Your Safety
My interest piqued, but it was the sender’s name that made the world around me fall away.
David Dylan.
I hadn’t talked to him since he’d walked out of my office earlier in the week, but my heart fluttered the same way it did whenever I came face to face with him.
“See something you like?” Jeanine asked.
I glanced up. “Sorry?”
“You’re smiling,” she said into the rearview. “If you spot anyFor Salesigns, we can pull over.”
