“Oh dear.”

“After the match was over, I caught him in the alley behind the club. He was so small, I could lift him off the ground with one hand. Little degenerate looked me straight in the eye and told me, yes, he’d done it and wasn’t sorry one bit.” Winter smiled to himself. “I knew he was either brave or stupid, so I asked him to do a little spying here and there, paying him mostly in hot meals at the beginning. He can still eat his weight in lemon pie.”

Aida laughed.

“His uncle died a couple years later, on Bo’s sixteenth birthday. Bo called me because he couldn’t afford to bury the man.”

“How awful,” Aida said, feeling for her locket.

“Damn disgrace that the old man didn’t even leave Bo a penny.” His brow lowered, then he shrugged away the memory. “Bo’s been living with me ever since.”

“I thought he told me he moved in with you after the accident? Wasn’t that two years ago?”

“We both moved back to the family home then, yes.”

“From where? Mrs. Beecham mentioned an old house of yours . . .”

Winter stiffened. “She had no business bringing that up.”

“Oh, I didn’t know—”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” he said, cutting her off.

His gruff tone stung. She’d unintentionally touched a nerve, and for a moment the air between them was awkward and tense. Bo had warned her about prying into his past.

“No one’s told you about the accident?” he said after a long moment. “Not Velma?”

“No, but I gather both your parents died.”

The subject hung in the air for several steps. “I didn’t mean to bark at you. I just don’t like talking about it.”

“I can understand that. Everyone I’ve ever loved is dead.”

His hard look softened.

“Apart from that, people talk to me intimately about death all the time,” she said. “Everyone wants to be reassured that there’s life after death, but I always beg them not to forget that there’s life before death—and that’s the only thing we really have any sort of control over. Anyway, if you ever feel inclined, I’m a bit of a specialist in these matters, and you have hired my services.”

He grunted his amusement. “I suppose I have. And I appreciate that, but some things are best left in the past.”

“Now that I agree with,” she said with a soft smile.

It took them a quarter of an hour to make it to the first side street. Avoiding the subject of the accident, they talked the entire way, first about Chinatown, then about what she remembered of the city from her childhood. The smell of fish cooking got them chatting about the Magnusson fishing business and crab season, then he told her a few stories from his childhood—stealing away from school at lunchtime to smoke cigarettes behind the baseball field . . . absconding with one of his father’s fish delivery trucks to meet schoolmates at Golden Gate Park.

Once they’d turned down the side street, the scenery began changing. Gold-painted window frames, pagodas, and curling eaves all but disappeared. Forgotten laundry dripped from balconies, and the smell of sewage wafted from dark corners. By the time they’d taken two more turns, they were sloshing through puddles on narrow backstreets where the asphalt gave way to old paving stones.

They found Doctor Yip’s storefront halfway down a cul-de-sac, right where Mrs. Lin said it would be. The sign was in Chinese, but they spotted the landmark she’d mentioned, a metal yellow lantern that hung near a door under an arch of honeycomb cutout woodwork. A string of bells tinkled when they walked inside.

Winter shook the umbrella outside the door as Aida looked around. The apothecary shop’s walls were wrapped in wooden shelves that stretched to the ceiling, each of them brimming with ceramic jars lined up in neat rows. Tracks of wooden drawers stood behind a long counter to one side. Near the back of the shop, sticks of pungent sandalwood incense smoked from a brass bowl filled with sand.

The shop was empty until a thin, elderly man appeared from a dark doorway. “Good afternoon,” he said with a British accent as he shuffled around the counter to greet them. He was shorter than Aida, with salt-and-pepper hair braided into a queue that hung down his back. And though he was dressed in western clothes—black trousers, white shirt, gold vest—he was wearing a pair of Chinese black silk slippers embroidered with honeybees.

“Hello,” Aida said. “We are looking for Doctor Yip.”

“You have found him.”

When Winter turned to face him, Yip froze. Aida tensed herself, hoping the elderly man hadn’t recognized Winter as a gangster; Winter had said this street was on the edge of a tong leader’s territory. But before she could worry any further, Yip exhaled. “Forgive me, but I do believe you are a very large man.” He grinned, laughing at himself, then nodded at Aida. “Quite wise to have a protector like this when walking some of these streets, young lady.”

She introduced the two of them and the herbalist heartily shook their hands before ushering them farther into the shop. “How can I help you?”

“My landlady sent me here.”

“Oh? Who might that be?”

“Mrs. Lin. She owns the Golden Lotus restaurant on the northern end of Grant.”

“Ah yes. Mrs. Lin—always brings me cookies, trying to fatten me up.”

Aida smiled. “Yes, that’s her. She said you might be able to help us.”