“Wyte’s not here. Heretic came in. Smoldering mad about your case. He ordered Wyte to go investigate an address. It related to something in your report, I think. Wyte was told to take Dapple with him. Poor bastard.”

“Crap.” Consequences of being honest with Heretic. “How long ago did they leave?”

“An hour. Maybe a little more.” That meant he could still catch up with them. He was already on the right side of the bay.

“By boat?”

“Yes. Western canal.”

What experience did Wyte and Dapple have investigating rebel safe houses? Partials and their snitches usually followed up on those kinds of leads. A spark of anger and guilt. Anger at Stark for giving them the information. Guilt at himself for putting it in the report.

“Remind me of the address?”

“1829 Northwest Scarp Lane. Wyte made sure I wrote it down.”

“Right,” Finch said.

The edge of the Religious Quarter. Dogghe-controlled territory. A low-grade war still going on between the native insurgency and the gray caps. The war they’d all forgotten. Either the gray caps no longer saw that insurgency as a threat, or the towers took up all of their time now. Or Finch just wasn’t in the loop.

“Putting Dapple and Wyte together. That’s like a suicide mission.”

“No shit, Finch. But Heretic wanted it done, said Wyte knew the area.”

“Only because he was a shipping manager for Hoegbotton, Blakely.” Twelve years ago. More.

“I wasn’t the one who sent them out there,” Blakely said, irritated.

The crackling became a roar, flooding the phone, then subsided after a minute.

“Blakely? You still there?”

“Barely. Listen, there were two messages for you. One from someone called Rathven. Another from a woman who just left her name as ‘S.’”

“What’d they say?”

“Just to call them. You should get back here. Soon. People are saying strange things, like the towers will be finished this week. We’re all on edge.”

Didn’t know you cared.

“I’ve got to find Wyte first.”

“You’re an idiot,” Blakely said, hanging up.

The woman stirred. An accusing stare. Hand still on the man’s shoulder. “Are you going to go now?” she asked. It didn’t take much effort to realize the gray caps or the Partials had done something to her husband. No stretch at all to blame the stranger with the badge.

“One more call and I’ll leave,” he said.

She held his gaze for a second. Then turned to the painting as if it were a window.

Finch dialed the number Sintra had given him. Rathven could wait.

A voice answered after a moment. Finch wasn’t sure it was her.

“Sintra?”

“Finch?”

“Yes.”

“Finch.” Relief in that single word, but also something that he couldn’t identify. “I was worried. I went by your apartment. Your door was open. You weren’t there. Are you okay?”

More than they’d said to each other in person sometimes.