Brooklyn in August had its own particular character.
Different from Manhattan's intensity, different from Westchester's suburban quiet. Brooklyn felt like a city that had decided to be exactly itself regardless of what anyone thought about that decision.
We drove on a Thursday morning. Me, Dante, Elena Rose who'd insisted with the particular firmness of someone who understood that this moment belonged to the whole family and Connor, because Connor would follow us into any situation that might conceivably be dangerous regardless of what we said about it.
James monitored remotely. Morrison had been briefed and had, after a long silence, said only: "Be careful. And call me immediately after."
The address was in Carroll Gardens. A brownstone on a tree-lined street that could have been any of a hundred similar streets in the borough. Well-maintained without being ostentatious. A small garden visible through the iron fence, surprisingly lush for a city property.
