The bus smelled like someone else's sweat and lemon oil. Neon from the harbor smeared through the fogged windows like an honest thing — bright and unforgiving. Emily had wrapped the last of her cash in a paper napkin and tucked it into the side of her jeans where the fabric was thin. It throbbed there, a small, warm thing. She kept her head down, letting Greyport roll past her like a film she could step into any time. The city smelled of diesel and frying oil and the brine that always followed the tide. Posters for late-night clubs, for fast loans, for diet pills, plastered the brick and metal. A tram rattled past loaded with night-shift nurses and barbacks. A dog barked. Somewhere, a piano tinkled. All the noise made a different kind of quiet that wrapped around her. She had twenty minutes to get home. If she timed it right, Kassidy wouldn't be there yet. Or if Kassidy was, Emily could slip in, lay the money on the counter, and let the hush of proof do the talking for her. The flyer in her hand was glossy, the kind of weight that said "big city" even when it wasn't. A woman in a black blazer smiled out of it — a magazine smile, small teeth, not quite the same as the woman who had put a warm touch on Emily's arm tonight and said, "You've got an eye for this." Angela Rourke's