Now came the frown, as he knew it would. But she nodded. “I will. I will, Finch. Don’t worry.” Reached out to squeeze his arm. Then withdrew her hand quickly. As if she’d shown weakness.

He stared at her now. Smiled. Sometimes he felt a closeness with her he shared with no one else, not even Sintra. She’d never fought the Rising. She’d just read her books, preserved them. Protected them. Shared them. Eked out a living making crafts. At least, this was the story she’d told him. A small part of him still wondered why she’d been taken to the camps. Or why she’d been let go. “I was too sick to work,” she’d told him. But she’d never looked sick to him.

“The gray caps like to confuse randomness with purpose,” Wyte had said once. But Finch didn’t believe that. Just believed they kept the purpose buried deep.

“Thank you,” he said. The words came out a little ragged. “Long day. I’ll call when I take them. If the phones work.”

“I’ll come up and knock if I don’t hear,” she said. In return, he knew he’d have to help push back the encroaching river one more time. Each task had its own price with Rathven.

She shut the door, taking the light with her.

Finch’s apartment was near the end of the hall. Had to negotiate a hothouse wetness to get there. Tendrils and caps of red-and-green fungus sprouted from the walls. Gray caps only cared about keeping the streets clean. No help from his next-door neighbors, either. Almost like they thought it gave them camouflage.

No one around, except his cat, Feral, a big brute of a tabby, crying to be let in. Bumping up against his legs while Finch made shushing sounds. Feral was loud, always trying to trip Finch and bring him down to eye level.

Sometimes the little old man in the apartment opposite heard Finch and came out, but not tonight. A former accountant, the man liked to sit in a shaft of sunlight from the hall window. Smile and talk to himself and nod, and read from the same ragged book.

Two minutes to unlock and then relock. Only Sintra knew the sequence. Still not comfortable with that idea. Had thought about changing the key.

Flash of another dark room. A worn bed. White sheets dull in the shadow. Didn’t look like anyone had slept in it in months. Dusty floor. Two corpses.

Flipped a switch. Relief when the lights actually came on. Faded floral print wallpaper. Rootlike edges to the frayed beige carpet. Worn-out furniture.

Relief at being able to hang up the role of detective in the closet, along with his jacket. To let the tough exterior come off like a mask worn for a festival.