Sintra gave him more water to drink. Perched beside him on the armrest. “The city is catching its breath this morning. There is no one in this building now. Not a single Partial. No eyes left in this apartment. Their attention is elsewhere.”

“How did you know? To look here.”

Her voice from above him, matter-of-fact: “I’ve followed you here before.”

“When?”

He felt her shrug. “I’ve followed you everywhere. Especially the last few months. Before the towers started firing on the Spit. I have followed you so much I know more about you than you do.” Not said like a joke. More like she was weary of it. Tired of being a shadow.

The words lay there, in the sunlight. Finch picked over them again and again. Didn’t find what he was looking for.

“Did you kill them?” she asked. Motioning toward the bodies.

“One of them.”

“But not before he got to you.” Said it like he was a problem to be solved. Like a threat.

Finch thought for the first time about the sword on the floor. Looked toward it.

His own gun appeared in her hand. Again.

“Finch…”

“Are you here to finish me off?”

“No, just to stop you from doing anything stupid.” She held out a pill to him. “You’ll feel better if you take it. Maybe long enough to get back to your apartment.”

Took the pill gladly. Willingly. A test both of him and of her. Swallowed. A vague warmth spread through his limbs.

The old absurd idea crept up on him with the warmth. It still isn’t too late. We can get out of Ambergris. Cross the river. Make it to Stockton or Morrow … Readying himself to make the argument again. That if they left together they could leave their old selves behind, too. But he couldn’t get the words out. Dust on his tongue. To say them would mean he was delusional. That he was pursuing a ghost.

“What happened to the man who was here before? Your case?”

A deep, shuddering breath. “First, tell me the truth,” he said. Had no cleverness, no deception, left to him. “Whatever it is.”

She considered the question for a moment.

“We work with the rebels sometimes, in exchange for other favors. Who was the man in this apartment? Was it Duncan Shriek?”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“The Dogghe. My people. Who was the man in this apartment?”

The Dogghe. The Religious Quarter. She was part Dogghe, part Nimblytod. Had no known address. Came to him in the night. Seemed to move around the city with ease. Of course she worked for the Dogghe.

“Yes, Duncan Shriek,” he told her, because it didn’t matter anymore. “Someone who is an expert with … doors. Why me? Why not Blakely or Dapple. Or even Wyte?”

The words still came out slowly. Mangled. It took her time to recognize them and respond.