There’s Lenny, of course. Lenny the concierge. Lenny the security guy. He’s got a bunch of keys, one for each apartment in the building. Would Lenny have handed over my key? Or could someone have swiped the keys from behind Lenny’s desk in the lobby? Ms. Cannister is always complaining about Lenny falling asleep on the job, says he spends more time counting sheep than counting visitors.

I’ll ask him on my way out. Now I have to get ready for my shift at Mattie’s.

Heading for the bathroom the apartment feels different, somehow. As if it has betrayed me. Everything looks okay, but the silence is eerie, so I switch on the TV and leave it playing in the background.

After a quick shower, make-up, clothes and shoes, I’m ready. But just as I’m about to walk out the door, TV remote already in hand, I get distracted by the face on the screen. A woman is missing, apparently. Katie Collins. According to the anchor, she hasn’t been in contact with her family for days and they are all very concerned. Taking a step closer to the screen, I scan the young woman’s features. Blonde hair, pulled tightly into a braid. Blue eyes, gleaming above a slight smile and skin that mustn’t welcome the sun – it’s as pale as my own.

Katie Collins looks familiar.

Chapter Three

Mattie’s is a place of dim lighting and threadbare velvet, pocked wooden stools and sprung sofas, pre-owned air and Zeppelin blasting from the speakers, all of it infused with a tingling anticipation that anything might happen.

I pass Al and Don who stand by the entrance door every night, each of them with that seen-it-all-before expression nailed to his face. I’ve never seen them dressed other than they are tonight: black leather jackets, iconic band t-shirts and Al in jeans that he somehow, magically, manages to close over his bulging beer belly.

Mattie’s gets an older crowd, so Al and Don don’t often need to flex their muscles; checking ID is their main job. The clients, which is how Matt insists we refer to them, come to listen to the music. To nod along to bass riffs and guitar solos, gaping in awe at the finger hopping Wally executes on the fender.

I drop my bag in the changing room and head out to the bar. Mattie’s is renowned for two things. Once a famous baseball player, Mattie broke his neck sliding into home base seven years ago and now runs his business from an ergonomic wheelchair, as seen on Dr Phil. And Aerosmith played here a couple of years back. A couple of decades back, to be precise, long before Matt Henley bought the place, but that didn’t stop him putting a big sign on the wall making sure everyone knows Boston’s Bad Boys once darkened these doors.