“Finch.” The word invested with some secret amusement. “Come in?”

Smiled, shook his head. “But I do have something for you. A list. A long list.”

“A list of what? Laundry list? Shopping list? Enemies? Friends?”

Finch laughed. “You should’ve been a detective.”

“I am a detective,” she said. The ritual refrain.

“List of names,” he said. “People who lived in an apartment where two murders took place. And you’ll love this: it’s more than a century of names.”

Not quite a frown, but a kind of quiver to the lips. A caution entering the eyes. She’d guessed the source. Not hard, really.

Rathven had been in the work camps for three years. Had the brands on the bottoms of her feet, the red-gold marking of fungus she could hide but never forget. There was a pulsing sensation sometimes, she’d told him. A restlessness. He’d never asked what else had happened to her there. Didn’t really want to know.

She helped him because he’d gotten her brother, Blaine, who went by the name “the Photographer,” out of the camps and into the hotel. Dozens of old cameras in the Photographer’s fifth-floor apartment. The man used the cameras to take thousands of photographs of water. Funded that obsession by running a black market for goods. Finch bought or traded with him like everyone else. Using gray cap vouchers, food pods, or salvaged items.

If the Photographer ever cut him off, or Rathven ever stopped helping him, Finch knew it would feel like a punch to the kidneys. Friendship or need?

He leaned over, pulled the list from his satchel. Felt tired suddenly, like he’d stolen something from her but realized it too late. “Could you read it? Tell me if any names are familiar. Maybe from your books.” Would pay her in information and fungal antidotes, like usual.

Rathven took the paper gingerly. Prodded the spongy edges with one finger. “Only if you tell me why.”

“Recent murders.”

The color went out of her face.

“Got a piece of paper?” he asked.

She nodded, reached behind her. Handed him an old envelope. Return address from somewhere in the Southern Isles. Might as well be some imaginary place now.

Drew the symbol. Handed the paper back to her. “Do you know what this is?”

A disdainful glance. “It’s a gray cap symbol, of course. Very poorly drawn.”

“Can you check it out? I’ve seen it before. But I don’t know what it means.”

“Sure. I don’t know how long it will take.”

“That’s fine…” Lingered, unsure how to ask for more. Then just said it: “Another favor. Memory bulbs tonight. Can you check on me? Call, or knock on the door if the phones are out? In an hour or two?” No idea when Sintra would get there. No point taking chances.