THE elevator chimed as it reached the fourteenth floor. June stepped out into the hall and approached the cream-colored door. She half expected to find a spare key on the doorframe or under the mat, but there was nothing. No matter. Two thin bits of metal and a half minute later, she was in.

Marcella Riggins’s apartment was pretty much what she expected: leather sofa, plush white rug, copper sconces, all money, no soul.

Still, there were a few surprising touches. The chunk of wood missing from the bedroom door, the rotted line like burned paper showing the path of destruction. The tiny, glittering pieces of glass on the counter and strewn across the floor. But the thing June inspected first was the record player. It was the kind rich people bought for decoration instead of function. But a small stack of albums leaned beside it, even if they too were just for show, and June flipped through until she found something upbeat, savoring the scratch of the needle.

Music poured into the apartment.

June closed her eyes and swayed a little.

The song reminded her of summer. Of laughter and champagne, the cold splash of pool water, of veranda curtains and strong hands and the scrape of the slate walk against her cheek and— The song scratched to a stop as June removed the needle.

The past was the past.

Dead and buried.

She wandered through the bedroom, drew an absent hand across the clothes in the closet—half of which appeared to have fallen victim to Marcella’s wrath. Her cell buzzed.

Syd: I’m so bored.

Syd: I wish I was there.

June wrote back.

June: You could be.

Syd: I can’t.

The words were routine, at this point, even if they both knew the outcome wasn’t really possible.

After all, June could be anyone, while Sydney, it seemed, could only be herself. Conspicuous in its constancy, Sydney’s presence would negate June’s own advantage. And, of course, there was the matter of the others—of Mitch, and more importantly, of Victor. June hadn’t, at first, understood the nature of that relationship, or the degree of Sydney’s attachment, until Sydney finally broke down and told her everything.

* * *

IT was last fall, and they were on one of their late-night calls, each of them perched on a rooftop, cities apart but under the same sky. Syd was tired—tired of living out of a backpack, tired of never settling down, tired of not getting to live a normal life.

June had wondered, of course, why they moved around so much—

had spent a good long while assuming they were on the run. But there was more, she knew it, and she’d been waiting for Syd to confide in her.

That night, she was tired enough to tell the truth. “Victor’s looking for someone who can help him.”

“Help him how?”

“He’s sick.” A long pause. “I made him sick.”