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Mallory would never read Charless note. She was already miles gone.

The window of her compartment was one of a hundred points of light which trumped the stars in their brilliance and speed. She was running along the iron rails, propelled by a powerful engine with no mercy for anything in its path, cutting a swath through the dark with the blinding brightness of the trains electric eye.

Staring into the window glass, she recognized another womans face in her own reflection, a gentle presence floating beside her. Two suitcases sat by Mallorys feet, but she carried no stitch of formal identification that would tie her to a name or a place. This was the way she had come to New York as a child, with only her wits and a bit of a mothers blood on her hands. And this was the way she voyaged out again, out of New York City and into the great sprawling landscape of America, which was another country.

CHAPTER 9 | Killing Critics | Carol OConnell