Amanda "Mandy" Applegate was barely scraping by. She couldn't understand why she'd stayed in New York all these years. It would have been easier to build a life elsewhere, but she couldn't bear to leave her Brooklyn roots. Her lack of funds after becoming homeless with a baby before graduating high school hadn't helped.

Her daughter, Brittany, was now twenty-seven, living comfortably on Long Island with her lawyer husband and their two-year-old son. Raising Brittany was the only thing Mandy considered a success.

Ironically, Brittany met her husband after he replaced Mandy's court-appointed lawyer during her nine-year prison sentence. Mandy had served that time for defending her daughter's innocence against her abusive ex-husband.

At least Brittany was grateful and allowed Mandy to see her grandson. Brittany, her husband Jason, and little Eli were Mandy's only solace. They offered her holidays and Sunday dinners, but couldn't provide financial assistance.

Mandy didn't blame them; burdening a young family in an expensive city wasn't something she wanted to do. This meant she lived with five roommates—mostly struggling showgirls—and worked as a waitress to make ends meet.

The commute to downtown Manhattan was long, but the tips from high-end restaurants made it worthwhile. It was the only thing that motivated her to endure the physically demanding work.

At forty-three, waitressing felt like a young person's game. If she'd graduated high school, her life would be vastly different. She could have gone to college, like her friend Mikey, and built a better future.

She eventually earned her GED, but it took decades. Her prison lawyer had advised her to pursue it. It helped pass the time.

Whatever happened to Mikey? He'd always been so optimistic, but his life, like hers, hadn't turned out as planned. He'd received a full scholarship and vanished. She sometimes wondered if he'd achieved his dreams or also fallen short.

She pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the customers at her table. While taking their order, she overheard a conversation at a nearby table.

Two well-dressed men, slightly older than her, sat in her section. She recognized them as potential big tippers—her favorite kind of customer.

"You want to fall in love?" one said incredulously.

The other replied wryly, "They say there's someone for everyone, but I doubt that includes convicted murderers."

Mandy was so startled by the confession that she missed the man's order. She apologized and asked him to repeat himself, much to his annoyance.

As she hurried off, she heard the second man say, with forced cheerfulness, "No matter. I'm happy to be out. There's so much I missed. Do your sons play virtual reality games? I can't quite get the hang of them."

He sounded like a recent parolee, someone who'd served a long sentence. Mandy could relate. When she was released, Brittany had graduated college and was engaged. Everything—fashion, music—had changed.

After delivering another table's order, she approached the well-dressed men with their wine. "Here are your drinks. Are you ready to order?"

She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her appearance had suffered after prison—pale, limp hair, lifeless eyes—but Brittany's beautician training had improved her looks considerably. She looked younger than her thirty-nine years.

One man wore a wedding ring; the other, the more handsome of the two, did not. She considered flirting for a better tip.

"I'll have a filet mignon, medium-rare, and some crab cakes," one said.

By his voice, it was the man without the ring. He seemed like a stable family man, talking about video games with his sons.

The other man, impeccably dressed, wore a carefree smile, but his eyes held a familiar hunger, desperation, and loneliness. They reminded her of her own eyes after becoming homeless and pregnant with Brittany. Her foster parents had kicked her out upon discovering her pregnancy, believing her claim that their teenage son had raped her. He denied it, and they naturally sided with him.

She doubted this man was a murderer for pleasure. He might be like her—driven to violence by desperation. She had stabbed her ex-husband's eye out after he molested her teenage daughter. The divorce was finalized while she was in prison because he successfully portrayed himself as an innocent victim. Brittany, terrified of him, refused to testify.

Mandy blamed herself for marrying him. "Losers attract losers," she thought.

"I'll have a T-bone, medium-rare, and a Caesar salad," the convicted murderer said with a smile. "Thank you, Mandy."

Her heart skipped a beat when he used her name. He seemed too kind to have spent time in jail, but then again, so had she.

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