Third, whatever the gray caps knew about Bliss, if they knew about Bliss. Finch couldn’t remember pulling the file on him. He’d have to put in a request. Which he hated doing. Couldn’t know what Heretic would “request” in return.

Took out the form anyway. Wrote in what he needed. Under “subject,” he filled in Ethan Bliss’s name and a few others. For cover. If Finch put in his report that he’d seen Bliss in the dead man’s memories, Bliss was as good as dead. Or would want to be. And Finch couldn’t be sure what it all meant until he questioned Bliss. Which wouldn’t happen if Heretic got hold of him first.

Why the hell was Ethan Bliss in the memories of the dead man? Typed:

Perhaps a fannarcesitti would be more useful in reading the man’s memories?

What would a gray cap see? Baiting Heretic gave Finch a grim satisfaction. Gray caps hated eating human memories. Almost as if there were a taste, a smell, that repulsed them. Finch couldn’t recall Heretic ever eating one. Could human memories harm a gray cap?

It is not entirely clear that these deaths are murders, rather than accidental. The two may have died somewhere else and been brought to the apartment. Residents of the apartment building have no additional information. Rumors that two people lived in apartment 525 cannot be confirmed.

Just covering himself in case whatever game the Partial was playing went south. Yet, stubbornly, couldn’t bring himself to mention the scrap of paper. Despite the fact the Partial knew about it. Had the Partial told Heretic? Maybe. Maybe not.

Finch pushed his chair away from the typewriter, hands behind his head. The report made no sense. Composed of smoke and shadows. Doubted Heretic would find it convincing. What did it mean that the dead man had spoken to him? Another thing he hadn’t put in the report. Some instinct had warned him against it.

Ripped the paper out of the typewriter carriage. A mechanical tearing sound loud enough to make all the other detectives turn toward him in one motion that seemed choreographed.

What the hell are you looking at?

Realized he’d said it out loud.

Jammed his report into a pod, along with the request for files. Shoved that down the memory hole gullet. Choke on it.

A minute later: a sound coming from the damn thing. Incoming.

The pod. The tendrils. Hammer. Egg. Extraction. A message from Heretic.

STAY LATE TONIGHT TO MEET

“Fuck,” Finch said.

“Is it bad?” Wyte asked.

“Why do you always ask that question?”

“Why is the answer always yes.”

“Then you shouldn’t ask it.”

Staying late always unnerved him.

Have to get out of here.

“Come on,” he said to Wyte. It would do Wyte some good, too. “We’re going to go talk to Ethan Bliss.”

If they could find him.