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As she signed the paperwork with her new landlady—a sour-faced old woman with a mouth like a prune and a withering stare that shot laughter from the air like a clay pigeon—she wondered briefly if the group of surly young men lounging around the entrance giving her hostile, assessing looks would murder in her in her sleep or merely beat her unconscious before they rifled through her handbag for drug money. Either way, she didn’t care. Asher, however, was not quite so laissez-faire about the situation. “You’ve got to be f*****g kidding me,” he said as he stood in the kitchen the day she moved in, gazing around her new apartment with his hands on his hips and his face blanched in disgust. She imagined the word “kitchen” with air quotes around it, because it was little more than a gouged s
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