Along the bottom line, written in clear black ballpoint, was Brielle Foster’s home address and apartment number.

I held the ticket in my palm and felt the thin, dry paper against my skin.

‘Spencer, why does this dry cleaner’s receipt have an East End Avenue address on it?’ I thought, the question circling in my head as my thumb ran over the printed numbers.

I slid the ticket deep into the right pocket of my cardigan and smoothed the knit flat just as Spencer turned around from the mirror.

He went over to the closet to fix his cuffs in the tall mirror there, his fingers working the silver links with quick, practiced flicks.