Wyte grimaced, said, “I’m busy, Finchy. Really. I am.” And kept writing. It looked incomprehensible to Finch.

“Last will and testament?” Wished he hadn’t said it.

“Shut up, Finchy,” Wyte said. Still scribbling.

“I’m not pathologically reporting on evidence I haven’t gathered yet,” Finch said, “and they haven’t come to cart me away.”

“You’re just lucky,” Wyte mumbled.

A light green stain began to spread across the back of Wyte’s blue shirt.

Finch cleared space on his desk. Brought the typewriter over. One of the best models Hoegbotton had ever made. A hulking twenty-pound monster that reminded Finch of just what Ambergris could accomplish back in the day. Hundreds of thousands had been shipped out to cities up and down the River Moth. “Combat-ready” went the slogan, and it wasn’t a joke.

Looked at his notes. Didn’t want to tell Heretic about everything he’d found. Not until he knew more about what the words meant. Discounted the symbol entirely. Even though it had burned its way into his head. “Focus on what you can control. The rest is just distraction.” Something his father used to say.

What could he report that was solid? A few moments gazing into space. Then he started to type. Stopped when he got to a part that bothered him.

Both memories contained images of a desert fortress. Both memories contained images of falling.

From a great height? Maybe.

Finch took a sip of his coffee. He’d washed the cup beforehand to make sure no fungus, visible or invisible, had taken root. Sometimes the gray caps did strange things with the mugs during the night.

Both memories contained images from the HFZ.

I think. How would I know, never having been there?

From analyzing

“My memory of…”

both memories it seems certain that the gray cap

Fanaarcessitti? Fanarcesittee? Always typos in these reports.

that the fannarcessitti was in pursuit of the man. But I don’t know why.

Then Sintra was kissing him and he was kissing her. Tongue curled against tongue. The salt of her in his mouth. His hand between her muscular thighs. A hunger. A need. Something that didn’t exist outside the sanctuary of his apartment.

Recognized the strength of that need, the danger of it, on the way to the station.

He exhaled sharply. That way lies madness.

More to the point, he shouldn’t even have been on this case. Not many people made the distinction between what detectives did and what Partials or gray caps did. Never do police work anywhere near your own area. Never let the people where you lived know your job. And yet, 239 Manzikert Avenue was only a mile from the hotel. Why had Heretic put him in charge? Didn’t trust Wyte anymore? Or was there some other reason? Leaned forward in his chair. Had to make some progress. Just dive into it.