K.J. came to the door in jeans and a T-shirt. She hadn’t used any hairspray that morning and there was no notepad in sight.
“How’re you holding up?” Tony asked.
“Listen, before you say anything else, I want you to get a couple of things straight,” she told him. “I’m 28 years old, almost 29. I’ve been on my own for years. I’ve lived in a few places since then, some of them a lot rougher than this. I work every day with cops who hate me, editors who underestimate me, and grieving family members who would like nothing more for me to vanish of the face of the earth.
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