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And the implication of the words left unspoken were clear: Do us all a favor and go back.

“Ah yes,” she muttered. The sharpness in her chest only twisted deeper. “Me and my American democracy, how am I managing in such a climate?”

Before Roma could rebut anything further, Juliette started walking again, veering off their intended route. Instead of passing the rally gathered about the wide road, she hurried into a nearby alleyway, barely pausing for Roma to follow after her. He registered the change quickly. Soon the two of them were picking their way through trash bags and overturned food carts, scrunching their noses at stray animals and grimacing at the frequent puddles of blood. While they walked through the city’s back roads, they were content to lapse into silence, content to pretend the other was not present.

Then Roma whirled around, spinning so fast to face the scene behind them that Juliette immediately assumed they were under attack.

“What?” she snapped, pivoting back too. She grabbed her pistol, then pointed wildly, waiting for something to jump out. “What is it?”

Except Roma remained weaponless. He merely searched the street behind them, his brow scrunched.

“I thought I heard something,” he said. They waited. A bird dived into a garbage can. An exterior pipe gushed dirty water on the streets.

“I don’t see anything,” Juliette said quietly, putting her weapon away.

Roma frowned. He waited another second, but the scene was still. “My mistake. I apologize.” He straightened his sleeve cuffs. “Let us continue.”

Hesitantly, Juliette turned and started to walk again. They were not far now from the address that Kathleen had given her. This was a familiar part of the city.

The goose bumps, however, remained on her arms.

He’s only being paranoid, Juliette tried to reassure herself. The fear of being spotted together was already keeping both of them on their toes. Juliette had her coat collar pulled high to shield her face. Roma wore his hat low over his forehead, which was a good decision when he presently looked so unkempt that any onlooker on the street might run in the other direction upon sighting him. In the bright daylight, the cuts on his face were stark against his pale skin. Judging by the shadows beneath his eyes, Juliette would not be surprised if he had not slept last night, likely tossing and turning in worry over Alisa.

Juliette shook her head. She needed to clear her mind of her assumptions. For all she knew, he could also have been out killing Scarlets.

“It’s one of these buildings,” Juliette said when they came upon the correct street. The houses here were dilapidated and crowded, the spaces between each building barely wide enough for a child to squeeze through. This area wasn’t far from the French Concession, yet a tangible line could be drawn as a border between the two districts, and it was clear which half this street fell on. A long rectangular structure lay half-crumbled under Juliette’s feet. Perhaps a grandiose village gate had stood here once, etched with golden characters to welcome its incomers, but it was gone now, torn apart for cityscapes and depravity.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Roma asked. “Surely a newspaper job pays more than enough to move elsewhere.”

“Of all people, Roma Montagov,” Juliette said, “you should understand the importance of image.” One and the same, with the people, among the people. The Communists never stopped preaching such ideals. If the common worker had to suffer, then Zhang Gutai must too—else what other basis did he have for their respect?

Juliette started toward the building her address indicated. Then—two paces away from the main entrance—she abruptly paused. She pointed. “Look.”

Roma stifled his sharp breath. Insects. A collection of their deadened husks, lying out in the open by the entrance of this apartment block. If this didn’t scream guilty, Juliette didn’t know what did.

Pulse thudding, she pushed at the apartment building’s entry door. The rusty lock came free, and the door swung open.

Juliette gestured for Roma to move fas

ter. They worked their way up the stairs, grimacing at the cramped conditions. The stairs staggered up the building along one wall, then trickled straight into a parallel hallway with four doors not so far removed from one another. North, then south, north, then south—they trekked up the stairs, passed the doors on the floor, then moved up the next set of stairs, continuing the process in a dizzying sort of pattern. Roma was more used to this; Juliette was not. She hadn’t lived within the city limits for years, nor felt the shift of the floorboards sigh under her feet as the entire structure seemed to heave.

“Which apartment is it?” Roma asked. He sniffed as they passed a windowsill on the third floor’s landing, eyeing the flowerpots pushed right to the edge, one little nudge away from shattering on the pavement below.

Juliette only stuck her index finger up at the sky. They kept climbing—up, up, up to the very top, reaching a floor with a sole door waiting right where the stairs ended.

They paused. They exchanged a look.

“He’s not home,” Juliette assured Roma before he could ask. She bent down on one knee, producing her thin, needlelike dagger from the folds of her dress. “I scanned the calendar in his office. Meetings with important people all day today.”

Only as soon as Juliette inserted the dagger into the lock, her tongue poking out from her mouth in concentration, she heard the very distinct, undeniable echo of footsteps shuffling inside the apartment and toward the front door.

“Juliette!” Roma hissed, rushing forward.

Juliette bolted up, stashing the knife into her sleeve. She held her arm out to stop Roma in his tracks, gathering herself just in time before the door flung open and an old man blinked at them with filmy, squinting eyes. He was surely pushing sixty, frazzled and weary-looking, as if he hadn’t gotten enough sleep since he came out from the womb.

“Hello,” the man said, confused.

Juliette thought fast. They could salvage this. This wasn’t beyond saving.