Alex said. They had bounded down the stairs of Camila’s building and hailed a taxi headed west on 98th. “What’s the deal with that pole?” Camila asked. “My dad took it from the gym near our house when it shut down. He brought it from home and gave it to me the day I graduated NYU. The next day, they died.” “How?” Alex looked out the window and closed his eyes. Camila put a hand on his knee. They rode in silence, north on the West Side Highway. “We have to go to the cops,” Alex said at last. “I know some are corrupt, and some are inept. But most aren’t. And we don’t have any other options.” “Right now, I feel safer in the back of a moving taxi than I would in a police station,” Camila said, staring out the window. Alex took her shoulders in his hands and turned her toward him. “We have to go to the cops.”
