...For what seemed hours, I shut my eyes and tried to drift off. But no such luck. The minute I’d get to where I’d start sinking into sleep, I’d picture a gang from one of those urban survival movies—you know, nose rings and evil intentions—coming up the hallway toward our room. God, you haven’t lived until you’ve lain abed in a New York City hotel room waiting to, at any moment, be mayhemmed.

Oh, eventually I dozed, but then, whoosh, my eyes were open. Open in terror because I’d become aware of movement in the room. I tensed and listened, at first consoling myself that it had to be Jeet padding to the bathroom. Jeet’s stentorian breathing right next to me, however, convinced me this was not the case. It sounded like—yes!—someone rifling through the things we’d spread out on the bureau, like our watches and Jeet’s wallet and my fox-mask earrings.

Well, if that’s all they wanted, they’re welcome to the stuff, I thought, but even while I thought it, it occurred to me that maybe Jeet had been right after all. That Flora had been a thief, a thief so brazen it didn’t matter I knew where she lived and I could, after all, lead police to her door.