“Seriously?” Sherri began to laugh—a shrill, manic sound. She couldn’t believe that in the huge city, she’d ended up so close. She chose to take it as a sign. As far as she could tell, the downtrodden neighborhood didn’t seem to change much within a few blocks of that grungy convenience store.

She cleaned up in the bathroom and put on a dress and heels. When she applied makeup, she thought of how Val had called it “putting on my face.”

The last stop before Mitch’s was a seedy liquor store that specialized in forty-five-ounce cans of malt beer. She splurged on the nicest bottle of champagne she could find and paid for it from the shrinking wad of remaining bills that she kept in the inside pocket of her purse. She didn’t like how she was back to worrying about money. That was what she’d loved best about the resort. She’d experienced many freedoms there, but the one she valued most was financial. She’d have to call Jerry as soon as she was settled and get the ball rolling on the mortgage, a deal she’d made that she still didn’t totally understand.

She pulled up in front of a run-down apartment building with a one-eared cat sitting on the stoop. This couldn’t be where Mitch lived. It was dark now. A streetlight flickered. Surely this must be a mistake. He was the only Mitch Spaulding in Los Angeles, but maybe there’d been an M. Spaulding?

Sherri plumped her hair and reached into her collar to lift and reset her breasts to show more cleavage. She grabbed the champagne by the neck and passed a woman standing by the road in a terry cloth tube-top dress, big hoop earrings, and stilettos. The past year she’d heard the words “prostitute” and “bimbo” bandied about, always with incredible derision, but until that moment she’d never seen a real hooker. Sherri tried to walk quickly past the woman and everything she thought she represented, but when they caught each other’s glance, she saw only another woman who might have been a Bunny or a teacher or a wife.

“I saw your Wisconsin license plate. You’re new in town?”

“Yeah,” Sherri said.

“You be careful.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Famous last words, honey.”

Sherri walked up to the apartment building. It was long and narrow, with exterior steps that led to the upstairs apartments. Blue light from televisions lit up the windows. Children screamed. She could still hear the traffic from the next street over, a siren. Apartment 2C.

She walked upstairs, her heels clicking on the concrete. When she reached the landing, she approached his door and tried to get a glimpse inside the pulled shades. Was Mitch in there? The wrong Mitch?