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again. “That’s okay. I can crash anywhere.”
    â€œI’m glad you crashed here,” she murmured.
    I pulled Krishna toward me and kissed her, pulling off the heavy coat until I found her nestled inside it. She was so slight I could slip a finger in the furrows between her ribs, her small breasts cool beneath my hands. She was surprisingly strong for a skinny girl: I remembered her loser boyfriend and the dark half moons on his throat.
    Eventually we fell asleep, Krishna curled against me. I woke once and stared at her child’s face, pale skin beaded with silver from the shadows of rain on the window behind us, her fingers pressed against her mouth, trying to keep a secret as she dreamed. Her eyelids twitched and her mouth twisted as though she were about to cry out. I kissed her cheek and her expression relaxed, fear fading back into some other dream. I fell asleep once more. Later, dimly aware that she was gone, I pulled my satchel close, my head pillowed on a crumpled camisole that smelled of smoke and limes.

 
    7
    I woke to gray light filtered through windows that overlooked a channel of greasy-looking water. I pushed aside a pile of clothes that weren’t mine and sat up groggily.
    â€œThat doesn’t look very comfortable,” a voice intoned.
    I turned. An extraordinarily tall man leaned against the wall and stared down at me, amused.
    â€œDon’t panic,” he said. “I’m harmless unless provoked.”
    I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. I pegged him at mid-forties, wearing a threadbare morning coat and pleated trousers over scuffed black winklepickers. The long-fingered hand he extended to me was so white it appeared bleached. His face was wearily handsome, deep-set dark eyes and strong chin, with a wry, thin-lipped mouth that gave him the air of an actor accustomed to making the best of a badly written, long-playing role. Both his height and appearance were enhanced by a top hat tall enough to hide a live chicken.
    â€œAdrian Carlisle.” The languid voice was coupled with a disconcertingly strong handshake. His fingernails were bitten to the quick. I caught the faint scent of damage in my nostrils, like spoiled apricots, a smell that was almost immediately gone. “I’m a friend of Krishna’s. A friend to all humankind. I assume she’s beneath the laundry somewhere?”
    â€œI don’t know. Yeah, I guess.” I looked around. “Is there even a bedroom in this place?”
    He gestured toward a cheap Chinese screen draped with scarves. “The seraglio lies yon. Coffin nail?”
    He held out an alligator-leather cigarette case. I shook my head. He withdrew an e-cigarette, sucked at it, then exhaled an amethyst cloud of vapor. I grabbed my bag. “Bathroom?”
    Adrian pointed at a door. “There’s no hot water.”
    There was no tub, either, only a flimsy plastic shower stall veined with mildew. Also no medicine cabinet, though one wasn’t necessary. I’d seen pill bottles everywhere in the flat—Fentanyl, mostly. On the floor, on windowsills, lined up on shelves beside empty vodka bottles. Here in the bathroom they jostled for space in the shower stall, alongside enough hair products to furnish a salon. Some of the pill bottles had Krishna’s name on the label. Most did not.
    And most of the bottles were empty, though I did find one half filled with something called Solpadol. I pocketed it, undressed, and took a flash shower. Afterward I dried myself on a cheap polyester kimono emblazoned with a red dragon—there were no towels, natch. I dressed quickly, pulling on a striped shirt and worn black sweater. When I returned to the living room, Adrian Carlisle was on the loveseat, his long legs stretched atop a pile of clothing.
    â€œSo which little friend are you?” He nudged a red lace bra with one winklepicker, flicking his foot so the bra sailed across the room.
    â€œCassandra.