I knew Lily was right, even before we got into trouble with those men. My life had to change. I had $630 saved. It might have to be enough. Enough to get to California, at least, and figure things out from there. But now when I thought about leaving, for the first time I couldn’t picture doing it. Not until I found Peaches. Until I learned what she knew, and maybe, maybe, figured out what these visions meant. It seemed wrong, unfair to all of the women, to take off like they didn’t matter. Like I wasn’t carrying around pieces of their lives.

I got dressed and slung Victoria’s purse over my shoulder. Des wasn’t home—another one of her nights out that bled into morning. I was worried about her, too, but also relieved. I didn’t know what was going on with the rent, but with her gone I wouldn’t have to deal with meeting anyone else in the back room.

Outside, the heat had finally broken, which created a lulling sense of calm that I almost let myself believe in. The ocean looked glassy and smooth. But I remembered the bloodstained knife in my purse, and the way Lily had thought she saw someone on the beach when we swam. I looked down at my fingers. The saltwater seemed to have helped the infection, but I wondered if they would scar. If I would walk around with a reminder of that man’s anger for the rest of my life.

It was early, but Tropicana already jangled with arcade noises. Fake trumpets and prerecorded applause warbled out of the slot machines, mingled with the phlegmy coughs of senior citizens and people carrying on loud cell phone conversations as they wrestled quarters from Ziploc bags heavy with loose change. The cigar bar near the poker lounge was already muggy with thick, sweet smoke. A man with wide shoulders and a broad, stout build stood as I passed, and I jumped because he reminded me of the two men from the night before. He eyed me for a moment before turning his attention to the cigar pinched between his lips, flicking a lighter and turning it slowly in the flame.

In the window of a boutique, a shopgirl changed a mannequin from a blue sequined dress to a red one with a slit up to the hip. What’s the point? You never saw anyone dressed glamorously in AC. Most people wore track suits, fanny packs, sweatpants with elastic cinched at the ankles. Dresses like that belonged to a different time.

I drifted aimlessly through the Quarter, passing the restaurant where I had gone with Tom—that felt like years ago now. I made my way to the hotel lobby, where a man was waggling his finger at a reservations agent, his wife at his side, her hands on her hips.