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“What—what did you do to me?” His hand goes to his heart. “What are you doing here!”

He tries to lunge but falls face first, then struggles to crawl up.

His body drops back down with a hollowthud.

“I’m here because I like watching, at the end, Mr. Barret,” I explain to the corpse.

My gloved hand retrieves the bottle, and I grab the sterile syringe from its box in my pocket.

I fill it and inject him three times.

The poison will perfectly fake the effects of an overdose, but it’ll help if they find the right drugs in his system. Not that anyone is going to look too far at what killed dear old Brad Barret tonight.

I go to the toilet and flush the rest of his scotch. The toxin dissipates fast, but one can never be too careful.

I’m done, and about to leave when I hear it.

It’s barely a noise, not even a breath, but I know better than to let that stop me from checking.

Shit. That was careless of me. I did observe Barret all day, waited until he drank enough, and I made sure no one was coming in…but maybe there already was someone in the apartment.

Who? My investigators assured me he was alone. He’d been visited by street grunts who carry his coke a few times, but that always had been brief.

What did I miss?

It could just be a cat.

I push open the door.

Definitely not a cat.

A problem.

The emaciated girl in a tiny crop top and a skirt short enough to show her butt crack has hollow, hungry eyes. She looks young. Far too young to wear this. Far too young to be here.

“How old are you?” I hear myself asking.

It doesn’t matter. She was here today, which means she’s a problem.

There’s only one way I deal with problems.

“What?” those light eyes falling on the body behind me.

“Your age, kid,” I repeat.

She swallows, her eyes returning to mine. “I’m—I’m…” She clears her throat.

“Lying to me will not end well.”

“Sixteen. I’m sixteen. I said I was eighteen so they’d let me join.”

No one with eyes would believe that waif is anywhere near eighteen. “Why did you whore yourself out?”

Those eyes are suddenly full of fire, like she hates me for pointing out what she’s clearly been up to. “None of your business.”

I chuckle. “And here I thought you might have some survival instincts.”

She returns to the corpse, swallowing a sob. “It’s my ma. She’s dying. Cancer. I needed?—”