Dorothy frowned. Higgens? Pumpkin? She searched her memory for where she’d heard those names . . .

It came to her quickly. Emelda Higgens was the woman from the past with the dandelion-puff hair whose solar panels they’d stolen that morning. And Pumpkin . . . that was the name of her little dog.

Only, Roman was talking about her like he knew her. Had he lived on that street they’d looted? It made sense, Dorothy supposed. After all, he was the one who’d chosen the neighborhood, and he’d compiled the names of all the people who were going to die in the earthquake. Dorothy hadn’t even bothered asking where he’d gotten them.

But why wouldn’t he have just told her?

“Don’t worry, Cassia, I wouldn’t have actually kicked him,” Roman continued. “It was weird seeing her again, actually. You know, now that I know what happens.”

Cassia? There wasn’t anyone named Cassia living in the Fairmont. Dorothy tried to remember if she’d seen Roman with a girl she hadn’t recognized at the Dead Rabbit in the last week or so, and couldn’t think of anyone.

A horrible thought entered her mind . . . Mac had once offered to let the Black Cirkus partake of his services. Not for free, mind, but for cheap. Dorothy had been disgusted by the idea, but what if Roman had taken him up on his offer? What if he knew one of the girls Mac kept in that horrible motel of his?

The thought twisted her stomach, and she quickly pushed it out of her mind. Roman wouldn’t do that, she felt certain. But, then, who was he talking to?

She moved closer, and the floorboard beneath her foot gave a long, low creak.

Roman fell abruptly silent.

Blast.

Dorothy glanced over her shoulder, wondering how quickly she could duck back down the hall and around the corner. Before she could decide one way or another, Roman was pulling the door open and she was caught.

“Dorothy.” Roman sounded surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I wanted to make sure you were all right,” Dorothy said. She’d never minded lying before, but it felt strange to lie to Roman, just as it had felt strange to spy on him. She struggled to remember why she’d actually come here in the first place. “You seemed upset back at the Dead Rabbit.”

Roman studied her for another moment and then offered up a quizzical smile. “Right.”

Did he know she’d been listening in on his conversation? Dorothy couldn’t tell. She rose to tiptoes, hoping the long cloak would mask the movement, and tried to subtly peer past his shoulder.

His eyebrows went up. “Looking for something?”

Her eyes snapped back to his face, cheeks flushing. “Of course not. It’s just . . . I thought I heard voices.”

Roman’s expression sharpened, giving Dorothy the impression of someone caught in a lie. Before she could call him on it, he stepped aside, flinging the door open so that Dorothy could see the room behind him: