I’d thought such a revelation might mean relief from the acid that had churned in my stomach the last few days, but it only stoked the flame. Solve a tiny mystery and forget it forever. But as I felt the wind whistle through the windows of that broken hotel room, I understood that finding the answer to this question might require me to take action in a way I could not abide.

Aiken inspected the bottle and was disappointed to see it was empty. He tossed it over his shoulder, breaking another pane of glass.

“The management is going to have my head. If the shadows don’t get me, the concierge will.”

“Before they throw you out, would you mind putting in a room service order?”

“Anything for the girl who got that song out of my head. What are you hungry for?”

“Does the kitchen do a roast beef sandwich?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then never mind.”

“They don’t do a sandwich because their roast beef is a gift from heaven. Bloodred and tender as spring. Far too fine to waste on bread. A little horseradish is all you need.”

“Then make it roast beef with horseradish.”

“That’s it?” he said and tossed a menu into my lap. I opened the green felt cover, scanned my eyes down the endless columns of tiny font, and realized how hungry I was.

“A mountain of dinner rolls. Prime rib, roast chicken, a crate of roasted vegetables in a vat of brown butter, and a platter of sole bonne femme.”

I didn’t see how much Aiken paid the waiter, but it was enough to keep the elevator operator from calling the police and to let me walk out of the hotel pushing a room service cart piled high with silver trays. I left him perched on his cushions, bathed in foul light, flinching every time he thought he saw a shadow move. I didn’t think he needed to be afraid. Just as a drunk may topple out a window and bounce off the sidewalk unharmed, Aiken was too flexible to be broken by the Westside. After all, nothing stains Brass.

The guard at the fence goggled at the food, but let me cross over when I handed him a wad of Aiken’s cash. I was home again, and I wasn’t sure I would ever leave.

There were night-fires burning on the streets of the Upper West, but they were feeble. The sidewalks were empty, and Van Alen’s guards looked scared. I pushed my cart, its trays rattling with every bump, across Fourteenth Street and into the familiar darkness of the Lower West. The shadows—for the street was mostly shadows—began to creep closer. I felt the cold tugging at my ankles, and I ran.