JJ heard the backfire of a car and jumped. The sound unnerved her, reminding her of the recent late-night shootings in her Lower East Side neighborhood. Gentrification had only partially taken hold on the streets and avenues closest to the East River, where gangs and drug dealers still roamed. A turf war had recently broken out, the newspapers reported. Five dead, including an innocent bystander walking his dog after midnight. Bang, bang. Bullet through the head.

 That was three days ago and just two blocks from JJ’s apartment. The only lead the police had was a sighting of a black car, make unknown. The police warned residents to avoid dark, deserted streets and to report anything suspicious, especially black cars that crawled down residential streets, seemingly headed nowhere. No way JJ would report anything to the police, however. The one and only time she had called them was about 20 back, when she was 7 years old. Next thing she knew, they had dragged her mother to the hospital to get her stomach pumped and dumped JJ into foster care. Just the sight of a cop yanked JJ back in time.

 JJ looked at the time on her cell phone. 1:30 a.m. Far too late for a woman to be out walking alone, even in Rachel’s exclusive Upper East Side neighborhood, where criminals tended to be of the white collar kind. But JJ had slept most of the afternoon and was now fully awake and restless. Astronomy, Rachel, Millicent, Jackson — she couldn’t get any of them off her mind. Maybe a walk would help. Besides, she had forgotten her toothbrush at home. She’d pick one up at one of the area’s 24-hour drugstore, then head right back.

 JJ found an all-nighter on 86th and Lexington and dropped $3.79 on a toothbrush and $2.25 on chocolate for Cal: a Milky Way bar, in keeping with their astronomy theme. They were to meet tomorrow and, as always, she wondered why he made the effort. It wasn’t as if he were interested in her romantically; he would have made his move by now. But that was okay. She liked having a male friend. Who knew the words male and friend were even compatible? They certainly wouldn’t be with a guy like Jackson. He’d hump anything that moved. Well, at least you knew where you stood — or laid — with him and, truth told, JJ wouldn’t mind getting laid.

 “The Reservoir’s real pretty in the morning,” he had said when they met in the park that afternoon. “If you change your mind, I’ll start out around 8, from the Reservoir Bridge off 85th Street.” Maybe. Probably. Yeah, why not.

 JJ glanced around her as she walked back to Rachel’s building. Doorways, exposed street corners, passing cars — a woman could never be too careful. Especially a woman who was dumb enough to be out strolling alone at nearly 2 a.m.

 JJ turned down 84th Street. Like other side streets this time of night, it was frozen in shadows that even street lamps couldn’t thaw. The darkness hugged the brownstone stoops and hung, like icicles, from tree branches. It muffled all sound except for the crisp slap of her flip-flops against her heels.

 JJ’s cell phone rang. A Queens area code, a number she didn’t recognize. The caller introduced himself as Dave.

 “I’m a friend of Andy Miller’s,” he said. “I know it’s late, but you left several messages at his hair salon, so I figured I’d better call you, that you probably didn’t know.”

 “Didn’t know what?”

 “Andy’s dead. That’s why his hair salon’s been. I’m just getting around to returning his messages.”

 JJ walked over to a nearby stoop and sat. “Dead? When? How?”

 “Broken neck, sometime Friday. He fell down a flight of stairs. A neighbor found him Saturday at the bottom of the stairwell.”

 “Why didn’t someone find him sooner?”

 Dave sucked in his breath. “Andy’s building has 24 stories. Everyone takes the elevator. The stairwell is tucked in a corner and set off by doors. It was amazing someone found him at all. The doctors think he might have stopped taking his insulin and that he got dizzy and lost his grip. But that’s not like Andy. He’s already had one kidney transplant. He wouldn’t blow off his meds.”

 JJ leaned her head against the icy banister. “I don’t know what to say.”

 Dave’s voice cracked. “Neither do I. Andy’s been my friend since 8th grade. What the hell was he doing climbing stairs? He couldn’t climb a curb without getting winded. We all kept telling him that if he didn’t lose weight and exercise, he was going to die young, and now — “.

 JJ waited for Dave to catch his breath. “Anyway,” he continued, “I thought you should know. The funeral’s Wednesday, at 4 p.m. The Assizzi Funeral Home on Staten Island. I don’t have the directions, but you can Google them.”

 “I’ll be there,” JJ said, although funerals scared her. She had never been to one. Not even her mother’s.

 “Well, gotta go make some more calls,” Dave said and hung up.

 JJ rubbed the goosebumps on her arms. Andy. Dead. How could that be? He had enough life in him to fuel the sun.

JJ sat, oblivious to the time, which is why she initially paid little attention to the black car that inched down the street.

 “Must be looking for a parking spot,” she thought. Good luck with that; the street was packed. Once past her, the car picked up speed and disappeared down the block.

 It wasn’t until it passed the second time that JJ’s senses snapped to attention. She took note: Shiny as black ice. Two doors, tinted windows, ornate hubcaps. Bad vibes.

 “Still looking for a spot,” JJ told herself again, but her sixth sense wasn’t convinced. “There are no parking places on this block, and you know it,” it said.

 But JJ refused to give in to paranoia. Yeah, the car was black, like the one police were on the lookout for in her neighborhood, but the city was full of black cars. Besides, wasn’t it a fact of city life that if you owned a car, you spent half your waking hours trying to park it? This driver just happened to be putting in his hours at night. Late at night. On a dark, deserted street, where a woman happened to be sitting alone. So?

 But stubborn as she was, she wasn’t stupid. She waited until the car rolled by a third time, then retreated to Rachel’s apartment as briskly as her flip flops allowed.

 The late-night doorman — or was it doorboy?  — was asleep on his lobby stool, his head crooked against the wall. He looked like a 2-year-old playing dress-up. His uniform was two sizes too big and his cap had slipped below his brows. All he needed was a teddy bear. JJ couldn’t decide whether to slap him awake or call his mommy. She shook her head as she walked past him. Pathetic. Anyone could saunter by him — including drivers of black cars.

 The phone was ringing as she walked into the apartment. Millicent again? Or maybe Rachel. Clients often called to see how things were going; never this late, however. “Only one way to find out,” JJ thought as she picked up the phone.

 “It’s me,” Millicent said. “Is Ivan there? Is that why you haven’t called me? Well, you can tell that husband of yours to go fuck himself. He’s the crazy one, not me, thinking he can keep us apart. Like that’s going to happen, right? Right? Damn it, Rachel, say something.”

 JJ spoke for her. “Rachel’s not here. Her grandmother died and she flew out for the funeral.”

 “Liar. Rachel doesn’t have a grandmother. She doesn’t have family, period. I’m all she’s got. Who the hell are you, anyway? Wait, let me guess. You’re Ivan’s flunky. He thinks this bullshit story will keep me from phoning. Well, I should come over and wring your neck.”

 “And you’d probably succeed,” JJ thought, imagining her easily storming past the sleeping doorman.

 “Listen up,” JJ said with bravado and shaking hands; this woman truly was deranged. “Rachel’s not here and if you call one more time, I’m calling the police.” Now that was a bullshit story. She didn’t wait for Millicent to refute her, however. She slammed down the receiver.

 One minute. Two minutes … five minutes passed. Blessed silence. Nonetheless, Millicent’s voice rang in her ears: I’m all she’s got. Clearly Millicent was fixated on Rachel, which was, in a sicko sort of way, understandable: Rachel was a stunner. But what of the bit about Rachel not having a grandmother or any family for that matter? Had Rachel lied to withhold personal information from Millicent? Or — and this was bizarre — Rachel had lied to withhold information from JJ?

 JJ went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth. She thought of taking a quick shower but decided to wait until the next morning, after her run around the reservoir. The thought of washing, drying and brushing her frizzy hair was too exhausting. Instead, she slipped under the cool, crisp sheets of the guestroom bed and closed her eyes. I should come over and wring your neck, Millicent had threatened. How as JJ supposed to sleep with the woman’s threat looping through JJ’s mind? How large were Millicent’s hands anyway?

 JJ got up to close the curtains, and only then realized there were none. Why? JJ wondered. Did Ivan, interior designer extraordinare, believe that natural light was rooted in the reductive aspects of Modernism, or whatever the hell Rachel had called it early that morning when they met. Was he an exhibitionist who didn’t mind letting perps take a peep? Or maybe it was Rachel who enjoyed being ogled. JJ turned off the light and crept back into bed.

 Sometime after 3 a.m., JJ began to doze. And when the phone rang again, she yanked the phone chord out of the jack. The bedside phone went dead, but all the other phones in the apartment rang out like church bells: Wring your neck. Wring your neck. Wring your neck.

 Desperate for sleep, JJ took desperate measures. She turned on the light, picked up her astronomy textbook and began to read. Ten minutes later, she was dead to the world.