“What’s in it for me?” said Melissa, stubbing out her cigarette.

If you knew an addict, you knew that’s how the conversation turned, sooner or later. “Claudia’s your friend. You’re doing it for her.”

Melissa sat on the tattered couch and put her head in her hands, rubbing her temples. “I was hoping you’d be able to help me out.” She ran one hand through her greasy hair and I saw an ugly red welt on her forehead that had been hidden by her bangs. “I’ve got a liver disease and I haven’t been working. It’s been really hard.”

When she said working, I wondered if it was code for prostituting herself. Claudia had told me of the depths that Melissa was willing to sink to in order to get a fix, but right now, from the drained and hollow look of her, there couldn’t be many takers. Deep down, I suspected that my sister was equally willing to turn a trick or two when truly desperate. “I really don’t have much money,” I said. “I’m waiting for a couple of clients to pay me.” If I’d wanted to whine about the strain of renting two apartments on different continents on a freelance income, I’d come to the wrong place.

“You look like you’re doing really well,” Melissa said, appraising me carefully. Did she really have a liver disease? Junkies got jaundice all the time, after all. But looking at her, twenty-seven going on forty-seven, made my heart feel tight in my chest. Where was my sister scrounging for her next fix, and how low she would go to get it? I reached into my bag and, without pulling my wallet out, dislodged a couple of twenty-dollar bills.

Melissa’s tired eyes lit up at the sight of cash. “Thanks,” she said, snatching the bills out of my hand, quickly folding them together and disappearing them into the elastic band of her black panties. “I saw Claudia in August.”

“August?” I repeated, with a sinking feeling. Her information was older than mine.

“Uh-huh. She came to a show at the Littlefield Dix Gallery.” Melissa reached for an open pack of cigarettes on the end table and lit up. For a split second I thought about asking her for one. “Claudia was looking pretty good, actually. I mean, she’s not bad looking when she puts herself together, instead of gooping herself up in that Cleopatra eyeliner crap.”

“My sister has gone for the goth look since she was twelve.”

“It’s never worked for her. But at the gallery she was wearing a designer dress and great shoes. She actually looked pretty.”

“How did you know the dress was designer?” I asked, remembering the luxurious clothes in Claudia’s closet. Maybe some of them had belonged to my sister after all.