The words hit him like a blow to the head. Felt the corridor swirling.

“I have to sit down,” he said. “If I have to, I’ll sit down right here.” The nausea had come back. Kept seeing Bliss and the tunnel they’d fallen through. Holding on to Bliss’s shoulders had made it real, hard to shake off.

Rathven, continuing: “You bring me these lists. These lists of dead people. And you say research them, and it turns out you’re investigating the murder of someone who couldn’t possibly have been alive. It’s a burden knowing that. Thinking that maybe you’re not even working on a murder case. That maybe you’re just crazy.”

Each word like a length of rope Finch tried to hold on to as he fell. Slipping away under his grasp. Burning his palms.

He saw the floor coming up on him, then the ceiling above as he managed to land on his back. Shoulder feeling crunchy, like ground-up glass. Hand scraping against the floor. Crumpled into darkness. But, thankfully, not Bliss’s darkness. Weightless. No nausea here. No thoughts.

Except the original one: What was Duncan Shriek doing in that apartment?

Ghosts of light pearling across the uneven surface of ceiling beams. Came to his senses in his own apartment, on the couch. A lamp on the stand by his head. Rathven leaning forward to stare at him. Her gun on the table between them. A battered old revolver. Heavy. The kind of thing that at close range would take your heart out, throw you across the room. Not what Finch would’ve expected from her. Curled up next to it, Heretic’s list, returned, along with Shriek: An Afterword and Cinsorium & Other Historical Fables.

With an effort, he pulled himself into a sitting position.

“How long was I out?”

“Just a few minutes.” Rathven wasn’t smiling.

A sudden, suspicious thought. “How’d you get me in here?” Reached for his own gun. Found it still there. Tried to make a graceful motion away from it. Too late. Looked up to see Rathven frowning again.

“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “That I’m really strong or that I had an accomplice? Or that I’m going to shoot you?”

“No, I meant—”

“My brother helped bring you in here.”

Finch nodded, ran a hand across his face. His hand felt like lizard skin. In his head a sound like waves.

Slowly realized the apartment didn’t look the same. Thought it was him at first, vision blurry. But no: books tossed on the floor. Paintings smashed or askew on the walls. His other furniture knocked over. The kitchen trashed, too. Winced from pain in his shoulder.

“Shit, Rathven. What happened?”

“I don’t know. It was this way when we came up. There’ve been too many strangers in the hotel lately. Why do you think I’m carrying a gun now?”

“You didn’t before?” Ignored the look she gave him. “I’ve got to get cleaned up,” he said.

“I’ll wait.”