Chapter One
The lock clicked behind her. Kitty Harlow walked out and took the light with her.
What she left behind was perfume that cost more than my rent and didn’t belong anywhere near this office. Floral. Musk underneath. Trouble.
I stood there, listening to her heels fade, then poured a drink and let it sit in my hand.
She was a looker. Built to be noticed—and smart enough to use it. The kind that didn’t ask questions. Made you forget you had any.
Desiree Harlow. Missing. Sister, Kitty said.
Blue films. Cheap rooms. Wrong crowd. That part tracked. Girls drifted into that trade all the time—chasing something or running from it. Most didn’t get what they came for.
Kitty’s story came out clean. Too clean.
Voice catching in the right places.
Hands steady when they shouldn’t be.
Eyes wet, but nothing fell.
I’ve seen real worry. This wasn’t it.
She wanted the girl found. Didn’t say why. Didn’t need to.
Then she mentioned the kid. Fallon.
That shifted it. A woman can disappear. Happens every day. A mother doesn’t—not without something forcing it. Or stopping her from coming back.
I took a drink.
The window was cracked, but Sydney pushed in anyway—heat, noise, the grind of it. Darlinghurst sat out there doing what it always did: taking people in, not always giving them back. That’s where Desiree vanished.
That’s where I was going.
Kitty gave me a name. Willie Brewster. Ex-husband. Broke, mean, quick with his hands. Petty theft, a few assaults. Nothing clever. But men like that don’t forget.
I lit a cigarette, let it burn. Thought it through.
The blue film racket ran quiet. No signs unless you knew where to look. Men higher up kept it that way—Darlinghurst’s own Mr Big types. Money moved. Girls moved. Questions didn’t.
Desiree was either part of it—
or she’d crossed it.
Kitty Harlow knew more than she said. That wasn’t instinct. That was experience. Women like her don’t come looking for help until everything else has failed.
I finished the drink, left the glass, grabbed my coat. Checked the .38 out of habit. Still there. Still honest.
The office held onto her perfume and my bad habits.
I wasn’t doing it for her. She’d think I was.
That was fine.
But the kid—
that was something else.
I stepped out, locked the door, and hit the street.
Somewhere out there:
a missing woman,
a man with a temper,
and a business that didn’t like being seen.
Willie Brewster was the first door.
If he didn’t open—
I’d knock harder.
