“I don’t do nothing. I do what I can. There’s a difference.” Hands clenched into fists. Face contorted. Close to being out of control. What if he’s right?

Stood there while Wyte opened his mouth to say something.

But Wyte didn’t say anything, just let out his breath with a shudder. Finch watched warily as Wyte reached into his overcoat pocket with a hand that trembled slightly and took out a flask made of battered silver and tin, the once-proud H&S insignia marred by fire burns.

Finch had given it to Wyte on his birthday ten years ago. Emily hadn’t liked it. Thought her husband drank too much anyway. Didn’t need to “make it into a ritual” as she put it. But that didn’t stop her from joining them when they’d stood on the step outside of the house to share a smoke and whatever Wyte had put in the flask. Remembered its quick glint as it picked up the sun or a streetlight.

“It’s got good brandy in it, Finchy,” Wyte said. “The last bit I’ve been hoarding.”

“You’re not going to hit me?”

“What for, Finchy? What’d be the point?”

Finch grimaced. Managed to transform it into a thin smile. “Some brandy might be a good idea.” He patted Wyte’s ruffled overcoat back into place. “I’m sorry, Wyte. I’m sorry.”

And he meant it. Turned away. Disgusted with himself. Who had the bigger burden? The one who had to watch the other person endure or the one who endured?

Wearily, Wyte said: “How could you know? What it’s like living with something else inside me. While on the outside I keep changing.”

Worse than a dead man talking to me?

Finch didn’t want to think about it. Took the flask. Downed half of it in a gulp. Felt the liquid rage through his capillaries. Like a forest fire that left ice behind it. He handed the flask back. “Good stuff.” They started walking again.

Wyte laughed. “Still can’t really hold it, can you? Any more than you could when you were working for me.”

Slapped Finch on the back hard enough to make him stagger.

Fair enough.

Wyte. The story.

He’d gone to investigate a death about a year ago. By himself. No one else in the station. The call sounded simple. A man found dead beneath a tree, beginning to smell. Could someone take a look? Most days, not worth bothering with. But it was a slow morning, and Wyte took the job seriously. The woman seemed upset, like it was personal.

The body was down near the bay. Beside a cracked stone sign that used to welcome visitors to Ambergris. Holy city, majestic, banish your fears. No one was around. Not the woman who had called it in. No one.