In the bedroom lit only by the blush of dim streetlights, Rachel struggled out of the skin-tight striped shirt like a snake shedding its skin. She tossed it on the floor, undid her bra, then pulled an oversized T-shirt over her head before slipping under the bed covers.

Blake plodded in, pale and shaky.

"Come lay with me," she said gently.

He got into bed beside her, she cuddled close.

"We got any sleeping pills?" he asked.

"Just lay still for a few minutes."

"I can't."

"Come on. Hold me."

He rolled away, got out of bed, then trudged out of the room.

"Babe. Come back to bed."

He didn't answer.

"Babe?"

She threw back the covers then started down the hallway. Her breath caught in her throat when she peered into the bathroom. Blake's hoodie, gloves, and ski mask lay discarded in the bathtub. Blood spattered the floor of the tub.

With alarm rising in her, she found Blake at the kitchen table throwing back a shot of whiskey.

Quietly, and in a steady voice she asked, "Why do your gloves have blood on them?"

He poured another shot and slung the whiskey into his mouth.

"Blake? Answer me."

"I could've killed him."

"Killed who?"

"McQuaid." He gripped the bottle by the neck and took a long drink.

"You said he'd be at the diner."

"I was trapped in his office. He said the cops were coming."

"He saw you?!"

"I was wearing a ski mask. It was dark. He didn't see anything. When he came through the door, I just lost it." He sucked in a long breath. "I had the hammer in my hand... and... " He leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes clenched.

Rachel grabbed a garbage bag and dashed out of the room.

In the bathroom, she stuffed Blake's clothes into the bag. She spilled a puddle of bleach into the tub, vigorously working a scrub brush against the bathtub's interior.

Blake entered, wincing at the strong odor of bleach.

"There's disinfectant wipes under the sink." She pointed.

Alcohol and shock rendered him motionless.

"Blake. Wipe the sink," she said, urgency raising her voice. "The faucets. Doorknobs. Anything you touched." Rachel's panic was contagious. "And stop drinking. We have enough to clean up."

Twenty minutes later, in a desolate field, Rachel emptied the garbage bag, dumping Blake's clothes onto a patch of dirt. Blake doused the clothes with lighter fluid then tossed a match. As they watched the fire burn, she asked, "Is there anything else you're not telling me? Think. Anything that could connect us?"

He shook his head "no."

"Think super hard." She squinted into the shadows, unable to shake the sensation of being surveilled.

"He had a gun," he mumbled.

"What?"

"He shot at me." He slurred his words. "But I don't think he hit... your car."

She shined the flashlight across the roof, then the hood and trunk. She paced slowly around the car checking for bullet holes. "Where's the money?"

"It's safe."

"How much do you think there is?"

"A lot."

She directed the flashlight inside the Honda, then swiped a disinfectant wipe around the steering wheel and across the driver's seat. She swabbed the dashboard and the interior of the driver's door then straightened. "Where's the hammer?"

He took the flashlight from her and aimed it under the seats. "Ah-ha!" He grinned a sloppy smile, holding the hammer like he'd just won an Oscar.

She snatched it from his hand and flung the hammer into the darkness. "You're sure there's nothing else you're missing?"

"No."

"Think hard."

"We're good. For real."

There was nothing Rachel feared more than loose ends. "Let's get the money and go," she said.

Her tone momentarily sobered him. "You said if we run, they know it's us."

"Maybe they already know."

He hung his head and disappeared into a mental black hole looking like he wouldn't be coming out for a while.

An hour later, back at the apartment, with adrenaline finally flushed from his system, Blake lay sprawled across the bed, his mouth open, snoring.

Gripping the container of disinfectant wipes, Rachel combed the apartment, carefully tracing every step Blake may have taken from the moment he entered the apartment following the heist. She cleaned the doorknobs, the sink fixtures, the door, and drawer pulls on the cabinets.

Exhaustion consumed her, not due to her shift at Booty's but from the exertion of critical thought, dissecting and reconstructing every possible move and misstep from the time Blake dropped her off at work until she found him waiting for her in the parking lot. She couldn't flip the switch, couldn't put her brain on pause. She had always been conscientious and skillful at covering her tracks. She knew her strengths and her limitations but when other parties were involved, the game became exponentially more dangerous. Whispering doubts grew louder. She was at a crossroads. She didn't have much time to make her decision.

########

Faye and her seven-year-old daughter, Ashley took refuge in a bus shelter against the broiling sun. Dressed in a low-cut flowered dress and red high heels, Faye drew wolf whistles from a passing car. She opened her compact, touching up her make-up, committed to maintaining the appearance of leisure-class status.

Ashley watched a crow glide down from its perch in a nearby tree, assessing the paper-thin baked corpse of a little brown anole on the pavement, declining the hot meal.

"Do birds stand their whole lives?"

"Huh?" Faye wiped the lipstick from the corner of her mouth.

"I mean when they ain't flying."

She felt the side-eye from her mom, then corrected herself. "I mean when they're not flying."

"I never gave it much thought."

"I mean you never see them lying down or sitting, except maybe in a nest. Don't their legs get awful tired?"

When a car braked at the intersection, a furious woman with bulging eyes and a beet-red face threw open the car door, then jogged to the bus stop. "Faye! Faye Chavers!"

The driver called after her. "Peg! Get back in this car."

The woman stood uncomfortably close to Faye, shoving her diamond band in Faye's face. "That's my husband. My husband!" She slapped Faye hard, jolting the compact from Faye's hand onto the sidewalk.

"Peg, dammit!" The driver shouted.

Peg glared, retreating to the car that sped off.

Petrified, Ashley noticed droplets of blood running from her mother's nose. "Momma! I can't—"

"--It's my own fault," Faye said, kneeling to pick up the pieces of her compact. "I knew damn well I had overstayed my welcome. But I was too foolish to listen to my gut." She dabbed her nose with a tissue. "Please excuse my language, baby."

########

It was an ugly morning. The sky looked hard like it had been skim-coated with plaster. Rachel passed a cup of coffee and a box of donuts to Blake who slouched in the passenger seat, blinking the sleep from his eyes, his face a pasty gray. Everything hurt. His neck, his hips, his shoulder, and to top it off a crushing headache jackhammered behind his forehead.

As she steered away from the drive-thru window she said, "Caffeine and sugar. A hangover's best friend."

Blake sipped his coffee. The morning shower had rinsed away the cobwebs, but the blurry vision and queasy stomach remained.

"Give me the chocolate one," she said.

Blake had just finished licking the sugar from his fingertips when Rachel parked her car in front of the brick home. Seeing the friendly neighbor stepping out onto his front porch, she asked, "What's his name? Vince? Vance?"

Blake shrugged. "Thought it was Mike."

Blake had only passing conversations with the neighbor but enough to determine that he was one of those guys resentful of the city's faded blue-collar transition. The steel mills had been shut down by the time he'd started kindergarten and decades later he still couldn't get over it. The days of breaking out of high school straight into a good-paying union-wage steel mill job were long gone. Pittsburgh was a place where tech culture prevailed, altering and gentrifying the landscape. Mike or Vince or Vance had been born two generations too late.

Rachel pulled a ballcap onto her head and pushed her oversized sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. "Let's get this over with." She bounded out of the car with Blake scuffing along behind her.

The neighbor stepped off the porch and waved. "Hey, how you guys doing?"

She smiled.

"Good," Blake replied. Now that he was upright, there was a strong possibility that he might puke. He found his balance then drew a deep breath through his nostrils, keeping nausea at bay.

"See you been busy over there," said Vince or Vance.

"I'm trying." Blake unlocked the front door. "Hope I haven't been making too much noise."

"Nah, it's all good."

"Hey, you want a donut?" Blake asked. "We overshot our pastry quota."

The neighbor patted his belly and said, "I shouldn't."

"They're fresh." Rachel opened the box.

"Well, maybe just one." He reached inside.

"Those wall outlets aren't gonna wire themselves," Blake said, retreating inside.

"Ooooooh, jelly." The neighbor grinned. "Donut mind if I do."

Rachel adopted a small obvious smile, the one that said I'm being polite but I don't want to engage. Most men could read it, but guys like Vince or Vance blew right by it like running a stop sign. His wife stood at the front door glaring as though it was a daily occurrence for hot women to stop by the house to hit on her husband. Rachel offered no evidence of flirtation. She was merely a girl standing there with a box of donuts in her hand, which were becoming as stale as the inane one-sided wordplay pretending to be a conversation. The wife shifted her weight, growing impatient, then stepped out onto her porch, letting the door bang shut. Her husband glanced over his shoulder, the obvious hint from his spouse finally registering. When he finally withdrew, donut in hand, Rachel escaped into the house. 

"Babe?" she called.

"Down here."

She set the box of donuts and her sunglasses on the counter and descended the basement steps. The first things she noticed were the towels duct-taped to the windows. Blake knelt on the concrete floor, stacks of money forming a wide arc around the deflated gym bag.

"Holy shit!" she said. "How much is there?"

"Almost four hundred thousand dollars."

"Wait. What?! Four hundred thousand dollars?!"

"Almost half a million. I counted it twice."

"Ho-ly shit!" She repeated in a loud whisper.

"Now you can tell Lou to stick that job up his ass." He kissed her.

"Yeah, and we can buy matching Ferrari's." She clapped, squealing with fake enthusiasm.

"You're right. You're right." He dipped his head, embarrassed.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," she said between kisses. "Not one thing. We both go to work as usual, get this place ready to sell, and then..."

"We. Are. Gone." He unbuckled his belt. "Release the Kraken."

As he leaned her back, she hissed, "The floor's cold." She surprised him by rolling on top and unzipping his jacket. "Come here, you." She drew his mouth to hers.