Fortunately, that’s not where Daisy’s taking us. At the end of the hall, she ushers us into a tiny bedroom, a sea of thin mattresses spilling across the floor, rusted springs exposed, everything stained yellow with sweat.

“You’ll be safe up here,” Daisy says, and I do my best not to burst out laughing. As if we’re safe anywhere.

A jubilant voice calls up the steps, and Daisy rushes to answer. That leaves me and Bee in the doorway, no more tour guide, no more anything. This isn’t much different than the first floor, the room smelling of stale cigarettes and remorse. It’s too enclosed for Bee and too bright for me, but we can fix that. The crook of one arm over my eyes, I struggle along the perimeter of the room, yanking open all three windows. They’re narrow and cracked, but they’ll be enough. Even a little air will calm Bee, make her remember anything besides that rotting attic.

When I’m done, I back against the wall, and Bee closes the ragged curtains after me.

“Thanks,” we say to the other at the same time. Our ritual. I open the windows, she blocks out the sunlight. We’re in this together, or not at all.

Exhausted, Bee and I collapse in a corner, bits of drywall flaking off in our hair. After last night, we need to rest, but we’re not alone here. There are a couple guys strewn about the room, lifeless as rag dolls, their heartbeats lethargic in their chests. They’re not dead, probably not even close, but they’re so listless they don’t even tempt me. It’s like sleeping next to roadkill.

“Why are all these people hanging around here?” I nudge the nearest one with my foot. He barely moves.

“Jane told me it was like this in San Francisco,” Bee says. “People just live where they live. Simple as that.”

“I don’t like it.” I scowl at the wall. “I’m not sure I like that Daisy either.”

Bee shrugs. “I think she’s sweet.”

“I think she’s a fool.”

“You think everyone’s a fool, Lucy.” Bee lets out a small laugh, the sound of her voice clear and calming, and I can’t help but smile. Nearby, one of the guys sprawled out on a ratty mattress grunts and turns over on his belly.

Bee situates an urn next to her and passes me the other one. I shove it behind me, where I wish I could forget it.

“Renfield was in England, wasn’t he?” Bee murmurs, her eyes closed. “How do you think he got all the way here?”

I stare up at the ceiling, conjuring his haggard face. “I don’t know,” I say finally. “He must have smuggled himself into cargo.”