I was a single twenty-six-year-old living in London, and this was how I spent my weekends: alone with fictional sociopaths. It’d never bothered me before, so why did I feel so restless now? After all, there was nothing wrong with staying in. A book and tea were far superior to battling drunken strangers for breathing room in a sweaty nightclub. Right? It’s not about the club. It’s about who’s there.
