“But,” Paz said, “if his father had been living with him, shouldn’t there be a ton of medical stuff at Patrick’s place? There was nothing.”

“My mother had a lot of equipment at the house when she was sick,” Izabel agreed.

“Right,” Paz said. “So why get rid of it?”

Opa said, “Maybe it does connect him to the murders.”

“He must have picked somewhere,” Paz said. “One place, to move it all to. We need to know places this time, Izabel.”

The food arrived and an officer unpacked the bag, laying everything out for them.

Izabel asked, “Is someone looking at everywhere he took cars to?”

“Christ, little detective. Yeah, they sent us the list, but it’s only addresses right now. We’re looking them all up. You ready to go back in?”

Izabel nodded, put the file under her arm, and picked up two small paper boats of food. Andy picked up another two. They went back in.

“Sorry that took a minute,” Izabel said.

“No worries,” Patrick said.

They didn’t talk while they ate. But as they finished, as Patrick crumpled a napkin over his small boat, Izabel asked, “Did you really apply to leave when everyone did? Like you implied at the privacy pods?”

“No,” he said. “And you—you said it was a long story.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Denied?”

“No, approved.”

“Then why are you still here?”

He knew the answer. If he was the killer, he knew. She didn’t know how to tell him without scratching some itch in him. She said, “I ended up crossing paths with the killer, but then they thought I was the killer, and they held me as a suspect.”

“You?”

She nodded.

“There’s no way.”

Opa was in her ear now, “Tell him that they made you see me.”

“They even made me see a therapist.”

“Tell him what you told me,” Opa said, “about what you were angry about.”

“How’d that go?” Patrick asked.

“I think she thought I could be the killer, too.”

“No.” He sounded shocked.

“Yeah, because I’m still angry about what happened.”

“To your mom?”

“Yeah, and to the world. I’m angry about how we’re living as if we’re in some wild utopia now.”

“But not that angry. Not angry enough.”

“No, not to kill anyone.”

“But they thought so?”

“They thought that was the kind of anger, maybe, that they were looking for.”

“Yeah.”

“But you didn’t apply to leave? Why not?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Patrick’s lawyer said.

“Not everyone applied,” Patrick said.

“I know. But why didn’t you?”

“You don’t have to answer,” his lawyer said again.

Patrick turned his head toward his lawyer, like he was looking at the lawyer’s knee. “I don’t want you to talk,” he said, and then he looked at Izabel again. “I wasn’t scared.”

“Because you had oxygen at your house?”