So why don’t I feel like celebrating?

This evidence is enough to justify closing up shop and heading back to Chicago. We could easily do the rest of our work there, from our own homes and our own beds. I could get the hell out of here. And yet…

All I can think about is Kaycee. Coughing up blood. The dizzy spells, the passing out.

“Who’d you have to rub-and-tug to get these back so quickly?” I ask. There is the abstract truth: documents and numbers and theories. And then there is the real truth: Gallagher’s ruined crops, the wreckage of his life savings; little Grayson, with a soft head and a malformed brain; Carolina Dawes and her son’s itchy rashes.

“Actually, I can’t take the credit on this one,” Joe says. “Your prosecutor friend Agerwal leaned on them himself. It turns out he was serious about taking corruption out of Monroe County.”

“An honest politician. Who knew?” Everyone’s watching me, waiting for me to look happy. I keep rifling through the stack of pages, turning the words and charts back and forth. “What are the symptoms of lead poisoning again?”

“Skin irritations, for one. Rashes, like people have complained about.” Joe ticks the symptoms off on his fingers. “Long-term exposure can lead to birth defects, major cognitive disorders.”

“And Gallagher’s complaints about his yield are in line with the agricultural effects,” Flora puts in. “It all fits.”

“It fits with what people are reporting now,” Portland speaks up. Thank God I’m not the one who has to say it. “But it doesn’t fit with what happened to Kaycee Mitchell.”

Joe frowns. “Not you, too,” he says to Portland. Then: “You guys, this is a slam dunk. CEAW’s going to funnel some more funds into another round of testing. In the meantime, we can get out of here. If I never see a cornfield, or a shotgun, again, it’ll be too soon.”

“Snob.” I try to make it sound like a joke, but I can’t even force a smile. My mouth is dry. Tongue like a sock. I should be thrilled, but there’s too much miring me here in Barrens: the freaking barn fire, and Monty, I believe, wrongfully accused. My dad falling apart before my eyes. Brent kissing me all the time like I’m his girlfriend or something. Misha. Condor and his daughter and her hula-hoop.

Shariah and her baby’s tiny head. Lilian McMann’s daughter, in nothing but her socks.

The bribes.

The Game.

“What about a corruption case?” I blurt out.

Joe shoots me a puzzled look. “Why do you think Agerwal took an interest? He’s all over it already. I spoke to him this morning, and gave him your notes—on Pulaski and the connection between Optimal and Clean Solutions. Clean Solutions looks like a money dump, just like you said. Any luck, we’ll be home in Chicago right in time for dollar oysters at Smith and Wollensky.”

I can hear how truly excited Joe is about getting home—back to his life in Chicago, where a gay black man blends right in. Where he’s easily juggling a rotation of seven boyfriends and can be seen with any one of them in public. Back to the perfection of his city apartment, filled with fabulous eccentricities, a state-of-the-art sound system, matching wineglasses, and an odd “water feature” that’s essentially just a fountain.