She hesitates for just a fraction of a second. “When Mr. Agerwal”—the new county prosecuting attorney, and a board member of the Indiana Prosecuting Attorneys Council—“took the job, he promised to take all the politics out of the justice system.”

“Like what? Bribery? Corruption? That is politics.”

Her laugh is surprising—deep and rich and swallowed just as quickly as it comes. “Maybe. But not our kind of politics.”

“So he purged the old guard.”

“I wouldn’t call it a purge,” she says. “Given all the scrutiny around police departments and prosecuting offices throughout the country, he felt the MCPO needed a clean start.”

This is how lawyers confess: by edging just close enough to the issue that you can take a hop-skip-jump to the truth yourself. “Here’s the thing: I’m looking into a donation to Pulaski’s state congressional campaign by a company he had threatened to go after for labor violations. Does that sound like his kind of politics?”

Another momentary hesitation. Now I understand her silence is code for yes. “I really can’t speak to that,” she says. “What our predecessors do is, unfortunately, kind of a black box.” Maybe she can sense my hesitation over the phone, because she adds, “Let me take your contact info. I’ll talk to Mr. Agerwal when he comes back.”

I put my head down on my desk, against the cool wood, willing the pulse of so many strains of information to finally hit a rhythm that I can latch on to. Will any of this get me closer to understanding what happened to Kaycee? Will any of it get me closer to answering the question that drove me out of Barrens and to Chicago in the first place? I thought if I could prove that Optimal was making people sick, I could cure Barrens of what had poisoned it—and then Barrens would finally let me go.

But now, I’m not so sure.

“Ms. Williams?”

I nearly punch out of my skin: Portland has returned, soundlessly.

“For fuck’s sake. We need to install a bell on you or something.” Then, I notice he has the strangest look on his face.

“You said she was faking it,” he says.

He slides a photo across the desk, and I’m shocked to recognize Kaycee, painted up in school colors. Graduation day.

Her arms are what strike me first. They’re skinny—as skinny as a child’s. It could be an effect of the paint or maybe the angle, but her cheekbones are blunt, like two axes that meet in the center of her face. Her clavicle emerges prominently from her neckline. She looks…sick. Really sick.

It may be the first time I’ve ever felt truly sorry for Kaycee Mitchell. I nearly reach out to touch her face, then remember Portland is watching me.

“Where did you get this?” I ask him.

“I went to the high school,” he says—so casually I nearly wince. I don’t know why, but it disturbs me to think of Portland walking those too-familiar halls—it is further proof that two sections of my life are collapsing. “I figured small town, the nurse would probably be the same a decade later. I was right.”