“So that mean I a pimp, too?” she asked.

“No,” I assured her. “You don’t need to worry. Even if the cops knew, they wouldn’t charge you. You were still in captivity. And the bosses were still making money off you.”

Jingjing hesitated. “But what if I make money, too?”

“How?”

Her whisper grew even fainter. “The men, they come in and ask how much for hand job, yes? And it twenty bucks, right? But sometimes I tell them forty. I know which ones will pay. The ones who come in already hard, they want back room bad, they not say no.”

“Then you only turned over twenty dollars to the bosses?”

“Yes.”

“And the extra twenty?”

“I have special hiding place. Then special friend, he come get it and put in bank for me.” Her whisper went deep and husky. “I have twenty thousand dollar in bank.”

“Wow,” I said, then, “You trust this guy?”

“Oh, sure. He crazy for me.”

“Then why doesn’t he pay your bail and get you out of here?”

“I tell him not to. Boss men come after me if they think I testify against them. I safer here than out there.”

“Jingjing,” I said after a moment. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever known.”

An appreciative giggle sounded from the top bunk.

“But this boyfriend,” I said. “How’d you ever meet him?”

Jingjing’s head popped over the edge of her bunk, and she gave me a disdainful look. “How you think?”

IT WAS SIX weeks before I received any mail at Valhalla. It arrived in a thick manila envelope that had already been opened and clumsily resealed with cellophane tape. My name and the Valhalla address were printed on the front. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, but the return address was my own street in the Bronx, so it had to be from David.

I carried the envelope back to my cell, ripped off the tape, and shook out the contents. They landed in a heap on my bunk, and I stared at them, all my letters to David.

“Is bad news?” Jingjing asked, watching my face.

“He returned all my letters.”

“Prick,” she said.

“No, wait.” I sorted through the envelopes. One of them wasn’t addressed to David. It was addressed to me, in the same handwriting that was on the outer envelope. Inside was an itemized bill for the last month’s rent and the damages to the apartment in excess of our security deposit. Also enclosed was a copy of the eviction notice, dated March 2. “It’s not from David,” I said. “It’s from our landlord.”

“So David no a prick?”

“I’m not sure.” He couldn’t have received any of my letters that arrived after the eviction, but I wondered about before, whether he just left them unopened on the floor for the landlord to find and forward. Or whether he was already gone before the first letter even arrived. He could have moved out the same day I was arrested.