Everything was golden, calm, unknowable.

Then Finch’s eyes adjusted to the light from the large window and he saw: living room, kitchen. A sofa. Two wooden chairs. A small table, an empty vase with a rose design. Two bodies lying on the pull rug next to the sofa. One man, one gray cap without legs.

Finch’s boss, Heretic, stood framed by the window. Wearing his familiar gray robes and gray hat. Finch had never learned the creature’s real name. The series of clicks and whistles sounded like “heclereticalic” so Finch called him “Heretic.” Highly unusual to see Heretic during the day.

“Finch,” Heretic said. “Where’s Wyte?” The wetness of its moist glottal attempt at speech made most humans uncomfortable. Finch tried hard to pretend the ends of all the words were there. A skill hard learned.

“Wyte couldn’t come. He’s busy.”

Heretic stared at Finch. A question in his eyes. Finch looked to the side. Away from the liquid green pupils and yellow where there should be white. Wyte had been sick off and on for a long time. Finch knew from what, but didn’t want to. Didn’t want to get into it with Heretic.

“What’s the situation?” Finch asked.

Heretic smiled: rows and rows of needle lines set into a face a little like a squished-in shark’s snout. Finch couldn’t tell if the lines were gills or teeth, but they seemed to flutter and breathe a little. Wyte said he’d seen tiny creatures in there, once. Each time, a new nightmare. Another encounter to haunt Finch’s sleep.

“Two dead bodies,” Heretic said.

“Two bodies?”

“One and a half, technically,” the Partial said, from behind Finch. Heretic laughed. A sound like dogs being strangled.

“Did the victims live in the apartment?” Finch asked, knowing the answer already.

“No,” the Partial said. “They didn’t.”

Finch turned briefly toward the Partial, then back to Heretic.

Heretic stared at the Partial and he shut up, began to creep around the living room taking pictures with his eye.

“No one lived here,” Heretic said. “According to our records no one has lived here for over a year.”

“Interesting,” Finch said. Didn’t interest him. Nothing interested him. It bothered him. Especially that the Partial felt comfortable enough to answer a question meant for Heretic.

The curtains had faded from the sun. Tears in the sofa like knife wounds. The vase looked like someone had started a small fire inside it. Stage props for two deaths.

Was it significant that the window was open? For some reason he didn’t want to ask if one of them had opened it. Fresh air, with just a hint of the salt smell from the bay.

“Who reported this?” Finch asked.

“An energy surge came from this location,” Heretic said. “We felt it. Then spore cameras confirmed it.”

Energy surge? What kind of energy?