It would be several hours before the girl’s body was found.
It was late now; so late that it could once again be called early -that surreal, enchanted, twilight hour between the end of a party and the unfurling of a new day. The hour when reality grows dim and hazy at the edges, when nearly anything seems possible.
The sounds of laughter and music were dying down on the thousandth floor, the party breaking up by bits and pieces as even the rowdiest guests finally tumbled into the elevators and down to their homes. The floor-to-ceiling windows were squares of velvety darkness, though in the distance the sun was quietly rising, the skyline turning ocher and pale punk and a soft, shimmering gold.
And then a scream cut abruptly through the distance as a girl fell down toward the ground, her body falling ever faster through the cool predawn air.
In just three minutes, the girl would collide with the unforgiving cement of East Avenue. But now — her hair whipped up like a banner, the silk dress snapping around the curves of her body, her brights red mouth frozen in a perfect O of shock — now, in this instant, she was more beautiful than she had ever been.