A description that matched what Bliss had told them about Bosun, Stark’s muscle. Which meant they’d had watchers on Bliss’s place. Watchers who had identified Finch incredibly fast. Now they were checking out where he lived. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like it at all.

Definitely time to have a talk with Stark.

“Tell me if you see them again? Or anyone else who doesn’t live here?”

The Photographer nodded. Then he was taking long strides to the hatch, as if he suddenly needed to be somewhere. The hatch creaked open, and he was gone.

Off to Finch’s left, Feral was stalking something new around a couple of wooden boxes. Finch went back to his whiskey. Wondered if Bliss/Dar Sardice leading them to Stark meant Stark would lead them back to Bliss. And who was Stark, then? Just another Stockton man, or something else?

All the while trying not to think of the skery. Curling up his leg. Wound around his neck.

Failing.

WEDNESDAY

I: When did you first decide to contact Stark? Before or after Bliss?

F: I was just investigating two deaths. Following orders.

I: And to you that meant scheming with all of the city’s enemies?

F: No, that’s not it at all. That you—

[screams, garbled recording]

F: Why did you do that? Why? I’m talking. I’m talking.

I: But you’re not saying anything.

1

On their way the next morning to track down Stark …

Wind and spray of rain against Finch’s face as they sped across the bay toward the Spit. Glad of the cool water soaking his hair. But he had a hard time keeping the filter-mask over eyes, nose, and mouth from clouding up. It itched, made him sweat. Made Wyte, as he turned toward Finch, look like something meant to frighten children. But better safe than dead. Even the gray caps didn’t know what lived in the air above the bay, the water corrupted by runoff from the HFZ. Tiny assassins. Cell disruptors and breath-stealers …

Finch stood at the prow of the gray cap boat, the only kind allowed out on the bay. Wyte beside him, skin on his arms green. Not from being seasick. The boat was big enough for eight or ten. Empty with just the two of them. Slight upward lurching push as it expelled water below the surface to propel them forward. Looked like any other boat from afar. Except it acts like it’s alive. Route preplanned by the gruff Partial who had met them on the shore. Who had shoved a mushroom into an orifice on the hull that looked uncannily like a memory hole. Somehow the boat knew where to go. How to return.