The apartment smelled like someone else's life.

That's the first thing I noticed when I unlocked the door Friday morning with the key Dana Mercer had dropped off the previous week. Someone else's candles, someone else's throw pillows, someone else's coffee mugs in the cabinet above the sink. Clara, Dana's sister, the one in London had left it neat and warm and entirely full of a personality that wasn't mine yet.

I set my one bag down in the center of the living room and stood there for a moment, looking around.

It was small. Considerably smaller than the Cole house, a one-bedroom in a building on Sixth Avenue with...