“I’m fine.” An ache rose in his throat. His hand on the receiver shook. No, he wasn’t fine. Exhausted. Starving. Still trying to process losing twelve hours in a blink of an eye. Holding it together because he had no one to hold it together for him.

“Are you back home? I came by, and when I saw the door open I locked it.”

“Thanks for that.”

“Where are you, Finch?”

Where was he? Clinging to a lifeline. He’d meant to warn her to be careful. But, somehow, talking now, it felt like he was talking to a stranger. A voice in his head told him he should be careful. How had Stark found out about Sintra? What if Sintra had told Stark? About him? Was that possible?

“I’m working on a case.”

“But why was your door open? Things were knocked over, as if there’d been a struggle.”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Can I come by tonight?”

Lump in the throat. “Sure,” he said. “I just called to hear your voice. Tough day.”

“Finch,” she said. “Is everything really all right?”

“No,” he said. Made a decision, leapt out into the abyss. “Not really. I’m about to go into a dangerous situation near the Religious Quarter. There’s an address we’re supposed to check out.”

“Then don’t go. Just don’t go.”

“I have to. I don’t have a choice.” Not with Wyte out there with only Dapple for backup.

“You’re scaring me, Finch,” Sintra said.

“I’m going to hang up now,” Finch said. “See you soon. Be safe.” A click as the phone cut out. Didn’t know if she’d heard him or not.

The woman watched him without saying anything. Even as he told her thanks. Even as he left a gray cap food voucher on the counter. Even as he backed out into the corridor.

Relax your guard in this city and you were dead.

2

An hour later, Finch stood on the ridge and stared down. Far below, the dull blue snake of a canal. Two detectives in a boat. Slowly making their way northeast. Finch was about three hundred feet above them. Wyte was a large shadow with a white face, the boat a floating coffin. Dapple had been reduced to a kind of question mark. Not a good place to be. Anyone could’ve been on the ridge, looking down. Lucky for them it was just him.

A steep hillside below Finch. Made of garbage. Stone. Metal. Bricks. The petrified snout of a tank or two. Ripped apart treads. Collapsed train cars pitted with scars and holes. Ragged, dry scraps of clothing that might’ve been people once.