Free Shadowkiller by Wendy Corsi Staub Page A

either—or in Centerfield, for that matter, though she’d celebrated her eighteenth birthday shortly before she moved away.
    If you could call packing your bags and paying one last visit to your mother’s lonely grave “celebrating.”
    Anyway, she’d known all along that both Centerfield and Pittsburgh were temporary; that she was destined to settle here in New York City.
    â€œWhat? You’re not registered to vote ?!” Luis feigned horror, slapping his hands to his cheeks and staring at her with his mouth agape.
    â€œI just haven’t gotten around to it. I will.”
    â€œYou’d better. We can’t take any chances on another four years with Dubb’ya.”
    â€œWhat makes you think I wouldn’t vote Republican?”
    His eyebrows shot even higher. “ Would you?”
    â€œIf I liked what the candidate had to say,” she told him, mostly to get a rise out of him. “I have strong Republican roots, you know.”
    Her maternal grandfather, Thurston Downing, had been a staunch conservative who’d held some kind of high-profile public office in Nebraska long before she’d been born. She didn’t know the details; nor had she ever bothered to look them up—though now, sometimes, she thought about using the World Wide Web to see if she could find out more about her mother’s parents.
    She’d never met them, had no idea whether they were alive or dead, or if they even knew she existed. Probably not.
    Whenever her curiosity got the better of her and she thought seriously about searching for them—or her father—she stopped herself.
    If her grandparents hadn’t disowned their only child, Mom might still be here.
    And if her father had never walked out on his wife and child, Mom might still be here.
    So, no. She wasn’t interested in finding anyone, even if it was just a matter of hitting a few keys on the computer. No, thank you.
    â€œYou’re a Republican?” Luis was asking.
    She forced away thoughts of the past and laughed at the look on his face. “What?”
    â€œYou said—”
    â€œI was just busting your chops. And don’t worry . . . babycakes . I’ll register between now and November.”
    â€œI’ll hold you to it. So are you ready to go?”
    They were taking an accessory design class together on Tuesday evenings, down at the Parsons School of Design.
    Allison looked at her watch. It was ten of six. “We don’t have to leave for at least another half hour.”
    â€œI know, but since it’s so nice out, I was thinking we could walk down to class tonight instead of taking the subway.”
    â€œWalk? From Thirty-seventh Street to Thirteenth Street? In these?” She lifted her foot to show him the four-inch Louboutins she was wearing.
    â€œDefinitely not in those. What size are you?”
    â€œNine.” She cleared her throat. “And a half.”
    He eyed her foot and raised a dubious eyebrow.
    â€œAll right,” she conceded. “More like a ten. Why?”
    â€œBe right back.” He disappeared for less than a minute and reemerged wearing a smug expression and holding a pair of black flats. “Try these.”
    She took them, looked them over, read the label. “Really?”
    â€œWhat do you want, Chanel? They’re free.”
    â€œDo you have Chanel?”
    â€œIn a ten? And a flat?” He rolled his eyes. “Sorry, Sasquatch. Wedge those giant dogs of yours into these shoes and let’s go.”
    She grinned, already unbuckling the ankle straps on her Louboutins.
    Five minutes later, they were strolling south on Fifth Avenue.
    C arrie was so caught up in what Mack was saying that, for the first time since she’d arrived in New York City, she’d forgotten all about Allison Taylor.
    Mack.
    His name was Mack .
    She still couldn’t believe it. If only she could tell him what the name meant to her. But