“Find anything?”

“Just that ‘Dar Sardice’ might not be an alias.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you go through some of the books about the wars, and the books I have about it from the Morrow/Frankwrithe side, you don’t find Ethan Bliss’s name anywhere until after the first mention of ‘Dar Sardice.’”

“Do you mean that Dar Sardice is his real name?”

“Either that,” Rathven said, “or he killed Dar Sardice and took his name. And then his real name isn’t Bliss or Sardice. Or, my sources aren’t complete enough.”

Bliss pointing him toward Stark. Bliss bringing him into the next day while Bosun trashed his apartment. Bliss throwing him off the scent.

“How about Stark?”

Thought he sensed a hesitation before she said, “No.”

“That’s funny, because when I mentioned Stark before you didn’t even stop to ask me who he was. Like you knew.”

“I thought you’d tell me soon enough,” she said. “For Truff’s sake, you were telling me your friend was dead!”

“A lot of people come to you down here in the basement, don’t they?” Finch said.

“You knew that already. Don’t do this, Finch,” Rathven said. Almost convincing him. But the ache was too great.

“A lot of people the gray caps wouldn’t approve of,” he said, pressing on.

“You’re tired, you’re grieving,” she said.

“People who want things from you,” he continued.

She changed tactics, said, “Am I under arrest?” Was it disdain or an echo of hurt he saw on her face? Were they insulting each other or wounding each other?

“No,” he said. “Where would I take you? The station was bombed today. It’s gone. Matchsticks and stones. Everybody’s gone.”

She had no answer to that, must’ve known “I’m sorry” would just set him off.

“Wyte’s dead,” Finch said, “because Stark took him over the edge. Stark got hold of certain information to try to make me help him. How did he get it?”

For a moment, Wyte sat beside him, saying, “How far are you going to take this?”

“Finch.” Pleading. For what, though? For him to trust her? To stop questioning her? To keep things the way they’d always been?