Milo's hair was ragged, his eyes electric. He had on a shirt and tie, but the tie was crooked and his collar was loosened. In the darkness his acne-scarred face looked like moonscape. His hand moved over it rapidly and repeatedly—almost ticlike.

“It's okay,” said Robin.

“No, no,” he said. “Uh-uh, don't comfort me—you're the victims—goddamn protect and serve—some protection. I know it sounds like a crock but we are gonna get him—one fucking way or the other, he's history. We'll get free of this.”

The three of us walked back to the truck. Milo's unmarked was parked behind it. None of us looked back.

The firefighters' lights were going out, one by one, as some of the trucks pulled away. Sunrise was several hours away. Without the bulbs and the flames, the night seemed hollow, just a thin membrane holding back the void.

“Wanna go back with me?” said Milo.

“No,” I said. “I can handle it.”

Robin stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

“I found out what de Bosch's sin was,” I said. I told him of Meredith Bork's experience.

“You stab me, I stab you,” he said. “No fucking excuse.”

“Can we be sure this wasn't the Iron Priests?”

“We can't be sure of anything,” he said furiously. “But a thousand to one it's not them. No offense, but you're just not important enough to them—they want Raza blood. No, this was our bad love buddy—remember Bancroft's comment about firesetters at the school?”

“You told me there was no record of any fires there.”

“Yeah . . . the kids behaved themselves there. It's when they graduated that the problems started.”

I drove, but I felt as if I was being towed. Each segment of white line diminished me. Across the cab of the truck, Robin wept, unable to stop, finally surrendering to deep, wracking sobs.

I was beyond tears.

Just as I crossed into Beverly Hills, she took a sucking breath and pressed fisted hands together.

“Oh, well,” she said, “I always wanted to redecorate.”

I must have laughed, because my throat hurt and I heard two voices chuckling hysterically.

“What style should we choose?” I said. “Phoenix Rococo?”

Benedict Canyon appeared. Red light. I stopped. My eyes felt acid washed.

“It was a crummy little place anyway,” she said. “No, it wasn't, it was a beautiful little place—oh, Alex!”

I pulled her to me. Her body felt heavy but boneless.

Green light. My brain said go, but my foot was slow to follow. Trying not to think of everything I'd lost—and everything yet to lose—I managed to complete the left turn and began a solitary crawl up Benedict.

Home temporary home.

The dog would run out to greet us. I felt inadequate for the role of animal buddy. For anything.