Page 4 of Man of the Year

“We need to find the person responsible,” I say, despiteno crime, per se.

“Are you telling meeverything, Miss Olsen?” the detective insists, making me feel as ifI’mthe criminal here.

She waits for the answer, but I’m done with this conversation.

“Well, think it over. Call me if you think of anything.”

I ignore her and grit my teeth as she passes me her card and leaves without saying goodbye.

Detective Lesley Dupin, Jersey City Police Department,her card reads.

Whatever.

It’s suddenly hard to breathe. Only now do I realize that my best friend might never recover. We might never have night-long chats again. No clubs. No dress-ups. No dreams of traveling the world. Or going to Greece. Or doing a road trip and camping out in the Appalachians.

First Lindsey. Now Cara. What have we done to deserve this?

I wipe away tears and pray for Cara to wake up. I have no clue who the man is that did this to her. He’s a needle in the middle of a haystack that’s New York City. So, how do I find a red-haired stranger who possibly injected my friend with a dangerous drug and dumped her at a bus stop?

TWO

NATALIE

On any given day, in a matter of seconds, Manhattan can become a death trap.

Both sides of 34thStreet are packed with New Yorkers, already inching onto the pedestrian crossing, into the steady bumper-to-bumper traffic, despite the pedestrian signal still being red.

That’s Manhattan. People and cars navigate the streets with jarring impatience.

My crappy mood doesn’t match the sunny weather. The interview for the bartending position at the Hyatt went well. But despite my stellar résumé, my frequent job changes are a red flag.

The traffic light turns yellow, and someone is already pushing against me from behind, nudging me into the back of a young man in front of me. He’s holding a coffee, his attention on the phone in his hand. His cologne is seductively bitter. Neatly combed light-brown hair, crisp white shirt, dress pants, and pointy leather shoes—he’s probably a banker or something of the sort. He looks pristine even in the early September heat. Judging by how little attention he pays to the traffic, he is a native New Yorker.

He starts walking, drawing my attention to the green pedestrian light.

By instinct, I step forward.

Just then, the sound of screeching tires makes my head snap in the direction of a red Oldsmobile, which is making a sharp turn on a red light at full speed into our street.

Like ants, the pedestrians split in half, jumping back or jolting forward.

Except for the young man.

Without thinking, I grab him by the arm and yank him back out of the way of the car that misses him by an inch.

His coffee goes flying into the air. The car swipes the curb but, without stopping, speeds away.

“Jeez,” he blurts out, turning to me with wide eyes.

The crowd surges forward, shouldering us, unfazed by the accident that was just prevented. But the strikingly blue eyes of the stranger keep me hostage.

He is charmingly handsome.

“Phew,” Mr. Handsome exhales, his eyes roaming my face. “I think you just saved my life.” He chuckles, his lips spreading in a gorgeous smile.

“Or spared you a hospital bill,” I say.

Someone shoulders me, and I start walking, the man following alongside.

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