“Nothing as exciting as what was happening here,” Finch said, pushing through them, Wyte tightlipped behind him. Over his shoulder, “Whatever play you’re practicing for, I’m not paying to go see it.”

That got a laugh, though not from Blakely or Dapple. Spared Finch from having to talk about his shoes.

As he and Wyte sat down, Finch tossing Stark’s file onto his desk, they got plenty of stares. Looks that said you’ll get questions later. For now, though, the Blakely-Dapple spat was still more interesting. Skinner was already trying to get them going again, asking Dapple, “Are you just going to take that from him?”

On top of the clutter on Finch’s desk: a note to call Rathven. Felt a spark of excitement. Picked up the receiver. Dialed the number. Waited while it rang. Stomach growling. Didn’t think he could take more gray cap rations, though. Might wait to eat until he got home. Hunger focused his thoughts. Made him sharper. For a while.

Still ringing.

Wyte, searching through drawers: “I’ve got an extra pair of shoes somewhere. Too big, but…”

Still ringing. He’d try later.

“If you find them, I’ll take them,” Finch said. No hesitation. Didn’t want to take another step without something on his feet. Too easy to pick up something nasty. Sudden memory of his father kneeling to tie his shoelaces. Eight? Nine? Saying, “Mud between your toes in the river, no one cares. Set one foot outside this house onto the street, I’ll never hear the end of it.” Sounds of his grandparents in the background, arguing about something long forgotten. Father’s bristly face inches from his, mouth transformed by a smile. “Let’s go for a walk, shall we?” Never knew when that meant his father had to meet someone, or if it really was just a walk.

Finch called another number. A number Sintra had given him. None of the phones on their way back had worked. Felt a helpless need to tell her she might be in danger. That “a man named Stark” might be following her.

Experienced an odd relief when no one picked up. Because, really, how could he tell her? Without telling her too much?

All you have to do is play along with Stark and he won’t touch her.

How had Stark known about Sintra? Bosun casing the hotel? Then following her home? Along with the unworthy thought: Maybe that’s what you should do.

A perverse pang of jealousy.

A sound of triumph from Wyte, who had produced a scuffed old pair of shoes. “Socks still in them!”

Wyte tossed them at his feet. Wyte had left his fingerprints all over the socks. Blotches of red and black. With a grimace, Finch put on the socks, then the shoes. Too big, but they’d serve.

“Thanks.”