Harry Starke

It was just after midnight. The wind howled through the ironwork, snow flying almost horizontal off the river. I was freezing, leaning on the parapet of the Walnut Street Bridge, and I couldn’t tell you why. There was something in the air that night. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. It made my skin crawl.

Then I heard her. Heels on the sidewalk, running. A classy woman in a little black dress and a white cashmere parka, red hair, four-inch heels, running through a blizzard like the devil was behind her.

I’d seen her earlier at the Sorbonne, sitting with two men who were a mile out of her league. Now here she was, looking back over her shoulder, terrified.

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