I stop in the middle of the street and see Malto, jogging toward me with his apron balled up in his hands. He looks healthier and more alive out here, in view of the sun.

“I heard you asking questions about your mom,” he whispers, with a sidelong glance at a shopgirl passing us on clacking heels. “You should talk to the assistant who I replaced. His name is Yuki. I don’t know anything else about him because Katox keeps no records, but he worked here while your mom was a customer, and I’m sure they spoke. Katox refuses to talk about him—I think he left on bad terms—but he once accused me of chattering endlessly like him.” He stares at me, and I can glimpse a different person inside him, someone who isn’t afraid of his domineering boss. “I’m sorry if he offended you. He’s—he can be an asshole.”

“Why do you stay with him?” I ask, before I can stop myself. The whole point of the Foix Institute’s programs—of Hero Pharm’s programs—was that smart, motivated young people could get the education they needed to work anywhere.

His eyes narrow. “Where else am I supposed to get work? This isn’t exactly New York,” he says pointedly, and I feel my innards shrivel.

Catching me wince, he softens. “This is the cream of the crop on Viloxin. I went to your mom’s institute for interior design, and this is who they paired me with. It’s a small island.” He wrings his apron in his hands. “Working with one spoiled old man who makes bank is better than catering to boatloads of tourists.”

I open my mouth to reply when a distant bell rings, and Malto pales.

“That bell haunts my goddamn dreams,” he says, before sprinting back the way he came.

I pass a small bakery that smells of vanilla and fresh brioche, and I buy some snacks, hoping it’ll help my blood sugar. Too many coins drop from my fingers, and my nails are blue when I collect the change.

Yuki. It’s not a common name, but it’s not uncommon, either. He could be anywhere right now, just like Mama. But at least it’s a clue.

I walk down a smaller side street, carrying the flower arrangement and the snacks, passing a wall of intricate graffiti as well as what look like very secure, upscale apartment structures. There are video cameras visible on every building, but no pedestrians at all. Clouds pass overhead, turning the alley gray. A melancholy quiet settles over me that makes me feel isolated and heartsore. Hooking the snack bag onto my arm, I check my phone with a free hand, and that’s when I see them:

Dozens of missed calls from Tai. Text after text, reading: CALL ME THE F BACK.