1

The beige Nissan pulled slowly down 213th Street. It was a quiet, tree–lined neighborhood, where most people had manicured lawns and minded their own business. That’s what Jacob Reese loved immediately about the neighborhood and that’s why he decided to rent a one–family home on the block. Here he could blend into the background of the clapboard–and aluminum–sided homes, with their playing kids, their azalea bushes and maple leaf trees. Jacob was ready to start a new life. But what happened just a few hours before could possibly upend all of his plans. He pulled into the driveway of his home. With the engine still running, he just sat in his car. Beads of sweat were still forming on his brow, threatening to run streaks down his face. The adrenaline rush was beginning to dissipate, and Jacob was tumbling down—crashing down. It was like coming off a crack high. He sat motionless for a moment, then grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, squeezing it so hard he started to feel pins and needles running up his forearms. He embraced the sensation. As he gripped the steering wheel, Jacob shut his eyes as hard as he could. He wanted to stop the shaking. He wanted to squeeze out the guilt that was rushing through his body like a roaring rapid.

“That bitch! That bitch! That fucking bitch!!!!” Jacob cried out at the top of his lungs.

One neighbor next door turned off the light to his front room and peeked out the window through the blinds to see what the screaming was about. In typical New York fashion, he decided the screaming was not quite piercing enough to rate a call to 911. He closed the blinds and went to bed.

Jacob put on the black b...