In a low voice, “Are you investigating me?” Her tone said, After all the help I’ve given you.

“No, of course not.” Scrambled for cover: “Could you do me a favor? He has a couple of aliases I need checked out.”

Finch searched for a piece of paper. Wrote down Graansvoort, Dar Sardice.

The truth: he couldn’t really imagine Rathven hurting him. Not on purpose. Suspected her of hiding something. But that might have nothing to do with him. Everyone in the city kept secrets.

She looked at the names on the piece of paper.

“It’s all getting more and more complicated, Rathven. Hard to keep it all clear in my head.”

“More complicated than Duncan Shriek?”

“Much more complicated.” Doors that were more than doors. Wyte become something greater and lesser than human. Suddenly, the city was several cities. Time was several times. As if he’d been looking at his map and the overlay, and suddenly realized more overlays were needed to really see Ambergris.

The confusion must have shown because she gave him a half smile. A kind of peace offering. “I’ll be finished soon. Then you should get some sleep.”

In the apartment Bliss can visit anytime he wants to?

He tried to smile back. “But why did you call? Really?” Teetering now. Two towers. Heretic’s skery. Wyte’s improbable charge. Dapple sprawled in the dirt. Dead.

She held his gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable. As if trying to convey something to him that could not be said aloud.

“Sintra came by the hotel this morning.”

“I know. She told me.”

“Did she tell you she came down to see me?”

Finch, suddenly alert: “No…”

“Did she tell you she asked about your case?”

“It was a short phone call.” Already marshaling stones, sandbags, the wreckage of tanks as a barricade.

“Well, she did, Finch,” Rathven said. “She asked me about the case. We talked about it.”

“And you told her about Shriek?” Incredulous.

Flat, dead tone. Not a glimmer of humor in her eyes.

“No. She already knew.”

Feral came to the door scratching about ten minutes after Rathven had left. Frantic as Finch undid the locks on his apartment door. Complaining about the tragedy of not having been fed. That there should be such injustice in the world. Despite himself, Finch smiled.

Finch locked the door behind Feral. Once again shoved a chair up against the doorknob. Put down twice the normal amount of food for the cat. Then lay down on his couch, forcing himself to eat a packet of gray cap rations. The packet was porous. The contents a swelling purple. In his mouth, it tasted like onions and salt and chicken. Knew it was not.

Welcomed the utter fatigue. It emptied his head. Made it hard to think about unthinkable things. He’d go back to the station in the morning. Sort it out. Somehow. The apartment still looked like shit, but not as much like someone had trashed it. Actually found himself hoping it had been Bliss, come back to finish the job. Otherwise, Stark was already upping the pressure. Or, there was an unknown element out there.