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the nickname so it rhymed with Play-Doh. “He’s like my fucking shadow, he is.” She read what was written on the back of the card, scowled, and tossed it onto the floor.
    â€œHe said it was a birthday party.”
    â€œI know what it is.”
    She wandered to a corner that served as kitchenette, searched the fridge for a liter bottle of water. She drank a hefty amount, returned to the living room, and handed the bottle to me. I took a sip: vodka cut with what smelled like nail polish remover.
    â€œIt’s got B vitamins in it.” She flopped onto the couch and lit a cigarette. “What’s your name again?”
    â€œCass. How old are you?”
    â€œAge of consent’s sixteen here. But I’m twenty-three.”
    â€œWhat’s the deal with this party?”
    Krishna yawned again, showing gappy teeth. “Ado knows all kinds of squiffy old people. No offense,” she added. “Birthday Girl’s on me like a cat every time I see her.” She stood, stretching so that the jersey ran up along her skinny thighs. “Feel like treating me to breakfast?”
    â€œYeah, okay.”
    She padded off into the shower. I was relieved there’d been no discussion of last night. Daylight and what passed for sobriety on my part had burned off any residual desire. She wasn’t my type—way too young, way too skinny, and the pharaonic eye makeup made me think of tombs. Still, that voice was one in a million.
    And she knew her way around London. I hadn’t had a proper meal in thirty-six hours. I still had no clue how I’d find Quinn, but I didn’t want to do it on an empty stomach. I picked up Adrian Carlisle’s card and stuck it in my pocket, waited impatiently until Krishna emerged from the bathroom, dripping like a wet ferret. Another half hour and she reemerged from behind the screen, dressed in black leggings and ankle boots, a knee-length orange sweater and freshly applied Cleopatra eye makeup, her cinnamon curls gelled into a pompadour.
    â€œReady?” she asked, pulling on her buffalo plaid coat.
    Outside the light was already failing. Rain slashed down from a tarnished nickel sky. People hurried along the canal path, collars turned up against a wind acrid with the odors of diesel and dead fish. Krishna texted nonstop, mouthing the words to whatever she heard through her earbuds. Bicyclists rang their bells to warn us of their approach, shouting at me when they passed—I couldn’t remember which side I should walk on. Krishna navigated like a bird in flight, never looking up from her mobile.
    We ate at a sleek little bistro, not the kind of place I’d have pegged as Krishna’s local. But then I was paying. Steak frites, a bottle of cheap Rhone. Every ten minutes Krishna would dash outside to have a cigarette, or turn sideways in her chair, whispering agitatedly into her phone.
    â€œLance?” I asked after about the seventeenth call.
    Krishna nodded. “Yah. You know how it is.”
    I thought of the bruises I’d seen on her arm. “Not really. I thought you said he wasn’t your boyfriend.”
    â€œNot your fucking business, is it?”
    â€œNope.”
    I ordered some coffee and popped a couple of Focalin. Krishna raised an eyebrow. “It’s polite to share.”
    â€œMedicine for squiffy old people. You wouldn’t like it.” I paid the bill and we walked back into the street.
    â€œYou got a game plan for the night?” I asked, as Krishna scanned the rainswept sidewalk, stopped to swipe intently at her mobile. “What, is it that asshole Lance again?”
    She shook her head without looking up. “Nightmapper. It’s a free app that tells you what’s on at all the clubs. Also which boozers have cheap drinks.” She glanced at me and grinned. “You’d find that useful. Says there’s half-price drinks at the Queen and Artichoke; I’m going to meet