The city had cut off water and power to the building long before Taire had moved in, so the interior was as frigid as the outside, and the boards and sheets of plywood blocked out any light from the street. She’d bruised and scraped her hands and face falling over things more than once, but eventually she’d memorized every inch of the place, until she could walk freely in the dark. Now she moved confidently through the labyrinth of dry- rotting furniture in the lobby, sure of every step, leaving puffs of her breath to hang in the frozen air.

To keep anyone from discovering her presence she’d been careful to disturb nothing, leaving the cobweb-laced drapes drawn open and the front desk to collect nothing but layer upon layer of dust and dead insects. Rats had been a problem for a while, until she’d found all the holes they’d been using to get in and sealed them from inside, where the repairs couldn’t be seen, using some drywall patches and filler that she’d taken from a supply shed at a construction site.

Every time she stole something, guilt ate at her stomach. She wasn’t a thief. But taking something that didn’t belong to her was better than waking up to find some of her hair gone, gnawed off to line a rat’s winter nest.

Since the elevators no longer functioned, Taire used the service stairs to go up to her room on the fifth floor. Along the way she checked each step for new footprints or signs that someone else had moved in. An abandoned building was an open invitation to anyone left out in the cold, and the plywood boards were getting old now. This winter was going to be a bad one; she could almost smell in the wind the coming snowstorms. If squatters broke in she couldn’t fight them; she’d have to go and start looking for another place.

She thought of the faint blue glow that had appeared so briefly under Rowan’s sleeves. Or maybe I won’t have to.

The door to the room she used was locked like all the others, but she’d filched one of the master keys from the manager’s desk and used it to let herself in. It was the smallest on the fifth floor, and contained only a single twin bed covered with a cheap brown and green paisley spread, an empty metal television stand (the heirs had gotten to the TV sets before the case went to court), and a cramped shower and toilet. The inch of water left in the toilet had frozen.

Taire had chosen the room not because of the bed, which she never used, but for the closet tucked away behind the door. The small room adjoined another, larger suite, and the closet between them could be opened from both sides. If someone came in unexpectedly, she could take her things and slip out into the adjoining suite without opening the interior door or being seen.

She went into the bathroom and stepped into the tub, tugging down her jeans before she crouched down low and emptied her bladder into the drain. It had taken some practice before she’d learned how to pee that way without splashing herself with her own urine. When she was finished she stepped out and poured down the drain a little bleach from the small jug she kept hidden behind the toilet. The smell from her urine abruptly disappeared.

Out in the room, she shrugged off her jacket and hung it on the closet rail before looking down at the sagging black garbage bag that contained her spare clothes and shoes. She’d spread the extra blanket she’d found on the closet shelf over a mound of sheets and cushions she’d removed from some rooms on another floor to make a bed for herself. Because the closet was only three feet wide she had to sleep curled up like a shrimp, with her feet braced against the inside of the door, but the cramped quarters made her feel safer than if she had been sleeping out in the open.

At first it was like curling up in a refrigerator, but it didn’t take too long for her to warm up in the small space. The three blankets she’d taken from other rooms trapped her body heat and kept her from freezing even on the coldest nights.

She didn’t bother to remove her shoes as she settled in, covered up, and clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. She began to warm up a little, but then her stomach started to growl. After a few minutes of listening to it, she took half a protein cereal bar from her jeans pocket. The foil wrapper crackled as she unfolded it and held the torn end to her nose. Although it was stale now, the white chocolate, toasted rice, and dried strawberries still made her mouth water. It was the last of her food stash, and she knew she should save it for tomorrow, but she was too cold and hungry now to sleep.

Her eyes stung as she nibbled at it, chewing every bite slowly to make it last as long as possible. This time a year ago she would have been asleep in her own bed, warm and cozy, her belly full. She’d never realized how lucky she’d been to have so much; she’d taken it all for granted. Back then she’d wasted enough food in one week to live on now for a month or two. Then it was gone, as if it had never been.

No more mistakes.

Taire reached under one of the pillows, took out the flashlight she’d found in a utility closet downstairs, and turned it on as she removed a folded paper from the plastic bag holding her belongings. The paper, a glossy, professionally printed flyer, had the photo of a young girl in the center along with a detailed description. Anyone who had information leading to the recovery of Alana King, the flyer promised, would be given a reward of five hundred thousand dollars. All they had to do was call the toll- free number printed on the flyer.

Taire crumpled the stiff paper in her fingers, and then smoothed it out and refolded it neatly before putting it back in her bag. She was convinced that Rowan could help her, but asking for that help would be almost as bad as making the call to the hotline for Alana King. She didn’t know Rowan. The biker chick might not want to help her. She might even turn Taire over to the cops.

She was so close that it didn’t seem fair that so many things could go wrong now. But they could, and just like the last time, one wrong decision would destroy everything. She had to be very careful, or she’d blow her last chance to make things right with her father. If she didn’t fix this, he would never let her come home again. He wouldn’t send her to the room. This time he’d make sure she never had a place to live or someone to love.

This time, he’d kill her.

It’ll be all right. Taire tucked a cold hand under her cheek and closed her eyes, imagining herself back in her old bed, surrounded by white eyelet lace curtains and clean linens, falling asleep while watching the snow fall outside. Rowan’s here now, and she’ll make everything fine again. She’ll help me get back home.

“So when are you gonna come stop by the office in person for your messages, Sean?” Rita the answering service operator asked. “ ’Cause I’ll tell ya, we got a pool going on you now.”

“Yeah?” Sean Meriden spotted a parking spot opening up in front of a deli and slid his Mustang Cobra into it a few seconds before a suit in a silver Beemer could. “How much?”

“Hundred ten bucks so far.” She popped her gum. “Whoever guesses right where you land on the Lost stud scale takes the pot.”

He grinned at the Beemer’s blaring horn as the driver gunned his high-priced engine and moved on. “Do I want to know what the Lost stud scale is?”

“Lost, like the TV show, you know? We made a scale of one to ten for the guys on the show,” Rita advised him. “Ten being Josh Holloway, and one being that googly-eyed guy who plays Ben.”

The things women did to entertain themselves. “Who’s five?”

“Desmond.” She sighed. “He’s not bad to look at, but that freaking Scottish accent and the way he’s always like calling every guy ‘brotha’ gets on everyone’s nerves.”

“I think I’ll let the pot build up a little more.” Meriden climbed out, locked up, and fed the meter some coins while he enjoyed the gawkers. His red and white sports car might have been an antique, but it still drew the envious eye of every middle-aged man on the street. Women, on the other hand, paid more attention to Meriden. “Any other calls come in?”

“Couple.” Paper shuffled on the other end of the line. “Mr. Dansant called just before midnight. Said to tell you that he moved someone into the other apartment. Didn’t leave a phone number or ask for a call back.”

“No.” Meriden’s smile faded. “He wouldn’t.”

“The last call came in about an hour before the day shift started. This guy said he was Gerald King of King Properties in Manhattan”—she snickered—“and that he needed to talk to you about doing a job for him. Left the number for his private line; I texted it to you.”

He didn’t have to think about the name; in Manhattan it was as well known as Donald Trump’s. “He’s not Gerald King.”

“That’s what I told my supervisor when I picked up your overnight messages. She said maybe it was an alias for some other important guy who needs you.” Rita chuckled. “You get the weirdest messages sometimes, Sean.”

“Goes with the job, sweetheart.” He looked down the block until he located a phone booth. “I’ll check in with you around noon. Page me on the mobile if you get in something urgent.”

“I’ve got twenty bucks on nine,” Rita confided. “You gotta be a Matthew Fox. Big guy, scruffy, tattoos, beat all to hell, but a born hero. I could tell first time I talked to you.” She disconnected before he could reply.

Meriden looked down at the inside of his right forearm. The tat in the center of his arm, a taijitu formed from the body of a snakelike dragon, had been rendered in scarlet ink that some people mistook at first glance for blood or a bad burn.

A born hero. If only Rita knew.

Meriden pulled up the text with King’s number as he made his way to the phone booth. He never called clients from his mobile; that would give them the ability to call him at any hour or even track his whereabouts. His answering service covered calls to the number on his business cards, and any callbacks he had to make he did from a public phone.

He dialed the number from the text and waited for an answer.

The line connected on the third ring to a soft, dry male voice. “Hello.”