The phone was in the kitchen. He avoided looking in the corner. The stillness was oppressive. The smell thick, physical. Had to pull his shirt collar to his nose.

Picked up the phone with his bloody hand. Waited.

“Hello. Finch?” Stark. Almost cheery.

“What do you want?”

“You sound a little shaky. What’s wrong?”

“What do you want?”

Realized then that Stark’s people had followed him there. Told Stark where he was. And that Stark knew Wyte’s phone number.

“It’s not what I want,” Stark said. “It’s what you want. And, apparently, you want me to keep hurting you. Apparently if I keep hurting you more and more, I’ll get what I want.”

A barking laugh from Finch. “The city’s fucked. The Spit’s destroyed. The towers are almost done. Whatever you want won’t matter in a day or two.”

“My dear Finch, that’s exactly my point. You need to tell me everything you know—by the end of today. Otherwise, don’t waste your breath lecturing me about the state of this shitty city,” Stark said in a silky voice. “Because what you should be worried about is: we could’ve gotten to Sintra easily enough. If you don’t reveal all by nightfall, she’s dead.”

The same Sintra who betrayed me to the rebels. The one who is still in my head, fucking up my thoughts. Giving me this pain in my chest.

“But you didn’t get to Sintra yet,” Finch said. “Which means you don’t know where Sintra is.” Any more than I do. Finch’s voice had risen to a shout. The back of his throat hurt. Every part of him hurt. How had Stark known Wyte’s number?

A long, low laugh. “Finchy, I want whatever’s in that apartment with Shriek. Today. So make it happen. Or Sintra’s next. Or Rathven. I don’t care which. Look what we did to Wyte. True, he was almost there already. We just gave him that final push. Want to know how? Look around before you leave. Maybe on the counter, maybe in the sink. Just take a look. Get a sense for just how desperate your friend really was. And who you’re up against.”

“There’s nothing in that apartment but Shriek,” Finch said.

“Then bring me Shriek,” Stark said.

Finch hung up.

Hated himself for looking, for taking Stark’s suggestion. Found nothing on the counter. Nothing in the sink. In the garbage under the sink, though, he found a small white envelope and a note.

In an embellished script, the note read, “Take these, Wyte. They’ll help. As promised. Love, Stark.” Inside the envelope, the crumbly remains of something fungal. Something that hadn’t helped Wyte at all.