“Look,” I said, talking through my teeth to keep my voice low. “I know you’re mad, and I’m sorry, okay? I will help you track down Leon or Heriberto or whoever you want, but I need you right now. I’m going to be looking at Peter Fairchild’s house in, like, fifteen minutes. It’s two-fifty-seven Noble. Just meet me there.” I unclenched my teeth, knowing that I sounded angrier than I felt. Magenta tears popped into my eyes and I blinked to keep them inside. “Chris, this is dumb. We’re a team because you basically forced it. I didn’t want to work with you, but you wore me down. I got used to you. Bailing on me now would be . . .” I had to blink again. Damn it. I hated this. I took a deep breath and reclenched my teeth. “It would be a real dick move. I’ll see you there.”

I was halfway out the door when my phone beeped. A text message.

Don’t worry, I’m not forcing you anymore. You’re free.

THE HOUSE WAS empty. Bare walls, bare floors, bare shelves. It had a closed-up feeling, but not like it had been closed up for long. Our footsteps echoed on the hardwood in the living room, on the tile in the kitchen; our voices bounced back at us in every room.

Caroline yammered on what seemed like endlessly about the features of the house, and I had to pretend that I cared, which was immeasurably more difficult after the conversation—or not conversation—between Chris and me. I was a mixture of so many colors—disappointment, shame, anger, despair—it was hard to tell what the resulting shade or texture even was. I could only liken it to something rotting. I started thinking of it as rottenshade. Congratulations, Martinez, you created a new hue.

There was nothing to see here. Not a scrap of paper or a computer screen or even so much as a footprint to help guide me to where Peter—and perhaps Luna—had gone. But I couldn’t just cry defeat. I had come too far. I had to at least try to get information out of good old Caroline.

We had toured the whole house, ending back in the kitchen, where she’d lain her keys, phone, and a stack of flyers for various other houses she was selling just in case this one wasn’t the right fit. I stood awkwardly in the middle of the room while she leaned against the counter.

“So why did the previous owner move out?” I asked, hoping I sounded like the average home buyer. Crossed my arms over my chest. Uncrossed them. Scratched my forearm and crossed again. How did average home buyers hold their arms?

“Major life change,” she said, smiling. Caroline seemed to never stop smiling. Her teeth were glossy and intensely white. “He bought a houseboat. Wanted to live on the water.”