“Letting me go doesn’t make me forget what you’ve done to my face, Finch.”

“I could’ve done worse. Don’t come near my apartment again, Bliss, or I’ll kill you.” Don’t come near Sintra. Don’t come near Rathven. No one.

The spy’s voice went cold, condemning. “When you see me again, it will be because I want you to see me. And not before.”

Finch turned around. He really didn’t want to see Bliss leave.

Bliss said, “You could escape, you know. You could just disappear.”

“I tried that once,” Finch said. “It didn’t work. I’m still here.”

A pause. Then a sound like darkness imploding on itself, a brief flash of green-gold light.

Bliss was gone. The scent of limes hung in the air.

Cursed and shuddered as he realized something: Bliss’s hands hadn’t been bandaged. They’d looked good as new. Who healed that fast, even with fungal help?

Bent over. Threw up his guts onto the courtyard tiles.

When he’d recovered, he sat down heavily on the edge of the fountain. Bone-tired.

Wondering what day it was.

Ten doors knocked on. Three doors that actually opened for him. Only the last one had a working telephone inside. An apartment a few blocks from the courtyard. He flashed his badge. An emaciated woman in a flower pattern dress let him in, checking first to make sure none of her neighbors on the ground floor saw her do it. Eyes large and bloodshot. Anywhere from forty to sixty. A purple growth on her left shoulder like a huge birthmark.

Inside, a bald man in socks but no shoes sat in a wicker chair facing the wall in a spare living room. Staring at a crappy painting of a beach in the Southern Isles. Wore a stained white undershirt and brown shorts.

The woman went to stand beside the man, protective hand on his shoulder, while Finch leaned on the kitchen counter.

Dialed the station. Wyte’s number. Listened to it ring once, twice, ten times. His mouth was still dry, vision a little blurry. Jacket dirty. His hair full of grit. Wyte’s extra pair of shoes scuffed from kicking Bliss. A sound in his ears he couldn’t identify. Tired because he hadn’t slept? Or because of stress?

A click, and someone said through the crackling, “Wyte’s desk.”

“Who’s this?” Finch asked.

“Blakely. Who’s this?”

“Blakely? It’s Finch. Where’s Wyte?”

“Finch. Where the hell have you been?”

Now he’d find out. “Have I been gone that long?”

“Just the whole damn morning.” Blakely sounded rattled, and a little drunk.

Perverse relief. He’d only lost a half day, maybe less.

“I had to follow up on a lead. Can you pass me over to Wyte?”