The Killer Who Found Me
I saw her secure it with the specific careful hand of a woman who had moved an object worth more than her own annual income a thousand times without ever once dropping one.
I saw a man one of the other handlers come out and speak to her.
She laughed.
I watched her laugh, from across a street, through two layers of glass.
It was the third time I had seen her laugh. I had already begun, without deciding to, to assemble a taxonomy of her laughs the bodega laugh, which was small and conspiratorial and disappeared into the coffee cup, and the porch laugh, which I had not yet seen, and the work laugh, which I had now seen once, and which was louder and more open and belonged entirely to the woman
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