Devin said, “Patrick’s father knew about the damage to the windshield. He and his EEPA friends hunt it down, find Hardiman and Rugglestone…”

“EEPA killed Rugglestone,” Oscar said with a note of shock in his voice.

Bolton looked at the file, then at me, then back at the file. He peered at it, and his lips moved as he read over the section detailing Rugglestone’s wounds. When he looked at me, the flesh on his face drooped and his mouth opened. “You’re right,” he said softly. “You’re right.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Devin said. “You prick.”

“A child’s tale,” Bolton said in a low whisper.

“What?”

We sat together in the dining room. The rest of them were in the kitchen while Oscar cooked his famous steak tips.

Bolton held up his hands in the darkness. “It’s like something out of the Brothers Grimm. The two clowns, the cavernous van, the threat to innocence.”

I shrugged. “At the time, it was just scary.”

“Your father,” he said.

I watched fingers of ice congeal on the window.

“You know what I’m getting at,” he said.

I nodded. “He would have been the one who burned Rugglestone.”

“In sections,” Bolton said. “While the man screamed.”

The ice cracked and fragmented as streams of rain tunneled through it. Immediately, fresh translucent veins replaced it.

“Yes,” I said, remembering my father’s kiss that evening. “My father burned Rugglestone alive. In sections.”

“He was capable of that?”

“I told you, Agent Bolton, he was capable of anything.”

“But that?” Bolton said.

I remembered my father’s lips on my cheek, the rush of blood I’d felt in his chest as he pulled me to him, the love in his voice when he told me I’d made him proud.

Then I thought of the time he’d burned me with the iron, the smell of burning flesh that had risen from my abdomen and choked me as my father stared at me with a fury that bordered on ecstasy.

“Not only was he capable of it,” I said, “he probably enjoyed it.”

We were eating steak tips in the dining room when Erdham came in.

“Yes?” Bolton said.

Erdham handed him a photograph. “I thought you should see this.”

Bolton wiped his mouth and fingers with a napkin, held the photo up to the light.

“This is one of the ones found at Arujo’s place. Right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you identified the people in the photograph?”

Erdham shook his head. “No, sir.”

“So why am I looking at it, Agent Erdham?”

Erdham looked at me and frowned. “It’s not so much the people, sir. Look where it was taken.”

Bolton squinted at the photo. “Yes?”

“Sir, if you—”

“Wait a minute.” Bolton dropped his napkin onto his plate.

“Yes, sir,” Erdham said and his body rippled.

Bolton looked at me. “This is your place.”

I put down my fork. “What’re you talking about?”

“This photo was taken on the front porch of your three-decker.”

“Of me or Patrick?” Angie said.