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street punk, found stabbed to death in a Hell’s Kitchen alleyway a few hours after Jerry’s arrest. It was only the timing, and the proximity to Jerry’s apartment building, that caused the cops to consider a possible link. Sure enough, Alveda’s blood turned up on the knife that was found in Jerry’s apartment.
    There was plenty of speculation during the trial about how Jerry’s path might have crossed Hector’s.
    But it didn’t. It crossed mine. Mine and Jamie’s.
    “Please don’t hurt me. Take my wallet. Please. Just don’t hurt me . . .”
    Those were Hector Alveda’s last words.
    Ah, last words. I’ve had the pleasure of hearing them from quite a few people, and they’re always the same, begging for mercy . . .
    It’s been a while, though.
    Too long.
    But now it’s back: the urge, the overpowering urge, to kill. For Jerry’s sake. To make things right.
    Because the thought of an innocent soul like Jerry killing himself in a lonely prison cell when he never should have been there in the first place . . .
    Someone has to pay.
    There they are, pictured in newsprint photographs lain out on the table, spotlighted in a rectangular patch of bright sunlight that falls through the window above the sink.
    Beautiful days like this one are rare here in Albany. Maybe the blue skies and sunshine are a good omen for what lies ahead.
    The photos were clipped from media accounts during the trial, and later painstakingly laminated to keep them from yellowing and tearing.
    Ordinarily, they’re tucked away in a big box, along with some of Jamie’s old clothing. The box is kept in the crawl space beneath the rented duplex; a crawl space that—come to think of it—might just come in handy for other things in the weeks ahead.
    But don’t get ahead of yourself. You don’t know yet how you’re going to do what has to be done, you only know that it’s time to begin.
    Now the box, with clothes inside, sits open on the floor beside the table littered with photographs of Rocky Manzillo and Allison MacKenna.
    And what about the prison guard on duty that night on the cell block, the one who should have been watching over Jerry, making sure he didn’t harm himself?
    No photos of him; no idea who he is.
    But it won’t be hard to find out.
    Meanwhile . . .
    The faces staring up from the table seem expectant, as if they’re waiting for their fates to be decided.
    “You’re going to pay !” With a furious shove, Jamie sends the table over onto its side, where it teeters, then falls flat on the top with a resounding bang.
    Almost immediately, there’s a thumping sound overhead.
    The dour old man who rents the apartment upstairs, the man who complains about the slightest thing, is banging on the floor—the ceiling—with something, probably his stupid old shoe.
    He’s never going to let this go by without further confrontation.
    Dammit, dammit, dam—
    Then again . . .
    Hmm.
    Maybe a confrontation with the old son of a bitch is just the thing to get the ball rolling again after all these years.
    “D addy?”
    Startled, Mack looks up from the paint can he’s been staring at for, what . . . five minutes now? Ten?
    His older daughter is standing in the doorway of the sunroom.
    Hudson has long, straight blond hair that people always assume she got from her mother, unaware that Allison’s natural hair color is brunette. Their daughter’s fair coloring comes from Mack’s mother’s side of the family—though he himself has dark hair—and so do the light green eyes that are a mirror image of his.
    But that’s where the resemblance to her dad stops. Hudson has elfin features, a sprinkling of freckles, and is small for her age. She also has an air of precocious confidence she didn’t inherit from either of her parents.
    “I don’t know where she gets it,” Allison frequently says, shaking her head over something their firstborn has said or done.
    Mack has a pretty good idea. His own mother, Maggie, had the