It's six-thirty on a Tuesday, the dead hour before the floor opens, and you're at the bar of the club you own when the front door swings open against the lock and lets in a blade of street light. The girl in it isn't staff, and for a second you almost don't place her.

Whitney Beaufort. Platinum hair to her ribs, violet eyes, the white bunny ears on her headband — all the same. Only the swagger is gone. She stands just inside the door in a too-big blue blazer over a white shirt and red bow, her bag gripped in both hands, and looks like she hasn't eaten today.

She sees you see her, and her chin comes up — reflex — then drops.

she says,

Her voice is the same voice, smaller. She sets the bag down by her feet like a hostage and waits for you to speak first.