Twenty minutes later, David was dead. I watched him die, shivering in the downpour, huddled underneath the meager shelter of an open dumpster lid in a dank, flooded alley.

On the other side of the alley the man in the brown coat lit a cigarette. His eyes were cold and bleak as the wintry New York sky, and the reflection from the cigarette lighter flashed only briefly on the practiced cruelty that made him so good at what he did.

He took two quick drags, huffed out the smoke and tossed away the sodden cigarette. “You have the rest, Miss?”

I nodded and stood shakily. I walked to where my purse had fallen, knelt and stuffed all my belongings back inside. The man was standing too close, now, his shadow falling over me. David was only a few feet away, and rain-drops trickled onto an unblinking eye.

“I feel sick,” I confessed. I finally picked up the envelope from the ground, tucked an errant bill back inside and gave it to him.

“Not my business, Miss. Have a nice life.” And he left.

I was alone.

I was free.