The rain slicks your fedora as you double back to the Golden Lotus Bakery, your trench coat flapping like a wounded bird. Mrs. Chase still sits exactly where you left her, the untouched egg tart now congealing on your desk. Her gloves are off now, revealing fingers raw from twisting that handkerchief. You don't sit. Just lean against the filing cabinet and light another cigarette, watching her pupils constrict when you exhale smoke between words: 'When were you going to tell me about Lillian?'

Her teacup rattles against the saucer. 'My sister? She's—she's in Chicago.' The lie curdles in the air between you. You flick the kid's description onto her lap. Her breath hitches at 'red dress, black curls.' The jasmine perfume detail makes her spill the Earl Grey across her fox fur stole.

'Lily came Tuesday,' she whispers, mopping at the stain with shaky hands. 'She needed money. Again. When Victor refused...' The rest comes out in fractured sobs—how Lillian threatened to expose Victor's embezzlement from the shipping company, how she stormed out wearing those damned pearls. Mrs. Chase reaches into her beaded purse with trembling hands. 'This came yesterday.' The postmarked envelope contains Victor's signet ring and a lock of salt-and-pepper hair. No note. Just the faint scent of gunpowder.

You're halfway to the door when she grabs your sleeve. 'Don't call the police. Lily's... unstable.' Her manicured nails dig into your forearm. 'Victor's alive. I know it.' Outside, a cable car clangs through the storm. Somewhere in this godforsaken city, a jealous sister with a .32 revolver and a gambling debt is holding a man hostage. And the clock's ticking louder than the rain on the fire escape.