“They wanted me to tell you—or perhaps to tell someone—that your young man might not be what he seems.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re worried about him; they think the belt is a dangerous weapon that shouldn’t be here.”

Kaylin knew she should think before opening her mouth, but it was still a bit of a struggle if she didn’t feel the consequences for failing would lead to immediate death or injury. “I’d like to speak to your friends.”

“But you can’t see them.”

“No. And I can’t speak with them—but you can. If you’d be willing, I’d like you to be an interpreter. A translator.” She almost felt guilty when Mrs. Erickson’s face lit up from within as she smiled. Mrs. Erickson often smiled, but her normal smile and this one were miles apart. Countries apart, metaphorically speaking.

“Now?” she asked, with almost naked eagerness, which did nothing for Kaylin’s growing guilt.

“I can’t leave the desk until the end of my shift—but when I’m done, I’ll head over to your place. You’re still on Orbonne Street? Number fourteen?”

“It’s fourteen and a half. There is no fourteen.” At Kaylin’s expression, she added, “I don’t know why houses are numbered the way they are. But I could wait until the end of your shift, if you want.”

“It gets pretty noisy in here, but if you’d rather not have Halls of Law visitors on your doorstep, you can. It’s entirely up to you.”

“My neighbors were a bit concerned the last time Hawks showed up at my door.”

But not concerned enough that they had checked up on an elderly woman, living alone, when they hadn’t seen her for a couple of days. Not concerned enough that they wouldn’t have ignored her injuries and her sudden disappearance. Kaylin knew nothing about the neighbors but instinctively disliked them.

“I’ll get you a better chair.”

“You want permission to do what?” Marcus growled as his claws drummed against his desk.

“I’m finished Sergeant Keele’s assignment, and I’d like to walk Mrs. Erickson home.” This was true; it was the stuff that she wanted to do before heading to that destination she left out.

“Mrs. Erickson has turned anyone who sits at the damn desk into driveling—”

“Sergeant,” Caitlin interrupted. “There’s an incoming mirror call.”

“It had better be important.”

“It’s the Hawklord. Private channel request.”

Marcus rose, Mrs. Erickson—and Kaylin’s pathetic request, as she was certain that was where the tirade had been going—forgotten. Hawklord mirror messages were generally taken in a room with an audience of exactly one: Marcus himself. Only after he’d vacated the office did Kaylin turn to Caitlin, the Hawks’ godlike secretary.

“Mrs. Erickson is a lonely woman,” that secretary said. Marcus’s disapproval was nowhere to be seen; Caitlin clearly approved.