Somewhere behind her, a siren began to wail. A police car burst into the junction, swerved aside, jumped a red light and vanished further down the street. She flinched and instinctively ducked into the nearest alleyway. She pressed herself to the cold brick wall and peered out. The car was already gone.

“Why am I even hiding? I haven’t done anything.”

“Or have you?” said someone behind her.

The voice was old, hoarse, yet firm. Anna whipped round. Deeper in the alleyway sat an old man with a beard like Gandalf’s. Beside him lay a beat-up sleeping bag and a pizza box, from which he lazily pulled a slice and took a bite. He was watching her closely.

“Stop wandering around aimlessly. It’s dangerous. Did you see that bloke with the knife?”

Without quite knowing why, Anna dropped into a crouch, then sat on the dirty tarmac. The sheet bunched around her legs. She gave a grin, but it came out tired.

“Worry about yourself. You’ve got a black eye over half your face.”

He dipped his chin. The shiner was hard to miss: the bruise had spread into a dark, blood-red blotch. In the light you could see it—his left eye a cloudy grey, as if filmed over; the right black, deep as oil. He glanced down at the pizza.

“Want some?” he said, lifting a slice.

Anna looked at it; her stomach grumbled in protest, but she shook her head. Food from strangers wasn’t an option—especially from someone sleeping rough.

The old man shrugged.

“You’d be better off going home. What are you doing here?”

She sighed.

“I don’t know where home is. I actually legged it from the mortuary, if you can believe it. And I can’t ask for help—feels like I’m not allowed. Long story short, you wouldn’t understand, old man. In this filthy, dodgy alley I feel safe. So… can I stay here a bit longer?”

She surprised herself, saying it out loud.

The old man arched a brow.

“Of course.”

“How did you end up on the streets?” Anna changed the subject.

The old man looked at her; something flared in his chest. A sliver of memory cut through. Family. Home. Bankruptcy. The street. A blow to the head. Emptiness. He brushed the images aside and his face settled back into calm.

“I don’t remember,” he said, his voice faintly shaking. “Same as you, Anna.” He paused. “Truth is, I’m here to help you.”

It hit her like a jolt of electricity. The old man rose slowly and came towards her. Sitting on the tarmac, she looked up at him.

***

Vincent parked by the police station and got out. By the entrance, right in front of a sign with a crossed-out cigarette, Chris was calmly smoking. Vincent stopped beside him and, after a look, said, “You can’t smoke here.”

“And where does it say that?!” Chris snapped, surly and disrespectful.

“Turn around.”

Chris turned. The sign was right behind him. He waved it off and headed down the steps, looking round for a bin. Vincent just shook his head and went inside. In the lobby, at the front desk, Sam stood there, wound tight.

“Just listen! I might be wrong, but you have to check what I’m telling you!”

The constable behind the desk regarded him with weary scepticism.

“You been drinking, son?”

“No! And what difference does it make?! I’m an adult!”

“Don’t you watch the news?”

“Even if it’s not her, that girl still needs help!”

Vincent stepped closer and quietly leaned on the edge of the counter, slipping into the conversation. Sam turned his head. In his eyes flickered a mix of hope and panic.

“Will you at least hear me out? My mate and I saw Anna Lord just now. She… she even scratched his face! I swear. It was either her or her double. The face was a dead ringer. Even the ears were the same—kind of elfin.”

Vincent’s eyes darkened for a moment. A picture surfaced. The lifeless body of his niece in a cheap motel.