“I didn’t realize the charity cases in Queens had such poetic names, Celeste.”

The voice didn’t come from the wind or the rustling boxwoods of the Aldridge gardens. It came from the stone bench where Sandro sat, a silk pocket square peeking out of his blazer like a splash of fresh blood. He was scrolling through a digital file on his phone, the blue light reflecting off his teeth as he smiled.

I stopped mid-step, the watering can in my hand slipping and hitting the gravel with a hollow thud. The morning air in Westchester was crisp, but a sudden, visceral sweat broke out across my shoulder blades.

“I don’t...