The Britannia Club stood on King Street, a respectable limestone facade among respectable limestone facades, with a brass plaque that nobody had looked at in decades; if you had to stop to check the address, you were clearly in the wrong place.

This was St. James. “Clubland.”

The men traversing these streets walked with that air of self-assurance that comes from belonging to a privileged set. In bookish Bloomsbury, the Londoners drifted around the British Museum in the wake of lit. . .

The Britannia Club stood on King Street, a respectable limestone facade among respectable limestone facades, with a brass plaque that nobody had looked at in decades; if you had to stop to check the address, you were clearly in the wrong place.

This was St. James. “Clubland.”

The men traversing these streets walked with that air of self-assurance that comes from belonging to a privileged set. In bookish Bloomsbury, the Londoners drifted around the British Museum in the wake of lit. . .

Chapter 2

Casey sat herself down at her desk and keyed on a voice memo on her work station.

"Incident report case number 26160117. Date: 27 July 2616. Report author: Casey Adler, detective INTERPOL, assigned to aid the Midtown North Precinct, AKA Hell’s Kitchen."

She glanced down at a notepad sitting on her desk, a finger sliding across as she read.

"Victim name: Helen Pratt. Age: 24," she continued. "Occupation: graduate student in physics. No side jobs noted, although. . .