Blakely’s face held fear and smugness all at once. “You’re off the case. He told us before he left. The case is over.”

Incredulous: “Who is taking it over, then?”

“No one. Working on the towers is punishment for what happened at the safe house. If you ask me, you got off light. He was in a good mood. Calm. Almost happy. Even when he put them to sleep.” A tilt of the head toward the holding cage.

“You’ve got to work on the towers,” Gustat said, still messing with his radio. An odd look on his face, halfway between a frown and a smile. “Thanks for the reminder,” Finch said. “Now fuck off.”

“Cheer up,” Blakely said. “I don’t think Heretic’s coming back. I don’t think anyone’s coming back.”

The clock ticked. The phone on Finch’s desk rang a few times. Mostly people scared because of the destruction of the Spit. Even though the towers had done nothing since. Some of the people who called even had some small hope he could help them. But they were living in the grip of memories of the old days. A past that had never really existed.

Finch worked on his final report. Going through the motions. Sticking to routine. Waiting for someone to tap him on the shoulder and tell him the rest of the plan. He would call Wyte soon, too. Just working up the nerve.

Started out with pen and paper. Wrote drivel. Fuck you … Am I just the bait?… There’s nothing here you can use … You’re monstrous …

Paralyzed for a moment by the thought of the look on Sintra’s face as she walked away from him for the last time. Clinging now to what she’d told him even as he’d told her to stop before. “My mother had gotten better, but my father had lost his arm to a fungal bullet. He couldn’t work for a long time he was so depressed. He’d been a journalist.”

Threw away his pointless notes. Went to the typewriter. Soon had a real report that while bland made a kind of sense. Was it good enough to satisfy Heretic while he completed his mission? Had no idea. Read it over one last time.