“You suck at research, too, huh?” Jenks said, perched on his mug and hazing the surface with his dust.

“Painfully horrible,” Trent said, shrugging his coat over his shoulders and grabbing his hat and briefcase. His motion stopped, and he smiled faintly. “Let me know what piece you want.”

“I will,” I said, then started when Trent turned on a quick heel and headed for the hall. “Hey, what about your doughnuts?”

“You can have them,” he said, already halfway to the sanctuary. “I’m not hungry.”

At a loss, I glanced at Jenks, and he shrugged. Jolted into motion, I followed Trent, having to wave the pixy dust from Jenks’s excited kids out of my way. “Trent, wait,” I said, finally catching up with him at the door. “Thank you,” I said, breathless when I almost ran into him when he turned at the old twin doors. “I think we can do this now.”

Standing there in the dim glow of the light over the pool table, he hesitated. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

Hands in his pockets, Trent looked totally unlike himself. “What would you have done with Dr. Farin?”

My smile faded. “Your geneticist? The one you killed?”

He nodded, opening the door to let a chill spring night breeze eddy about my ankles. “Now that you know everything, what hung in the balance, what was at stake—how would you have stopped him from going to the press and bringing about the end of everything that you’d spent your life trying to save? Life imprisonment such as a demon demands? Bribe him with even greater wealth, knowing you’d forever be his slave? Or would you end it cleanly, kill one greedy man to save thousands, maybe millions, from suffering?”

My mouth was dry, and I didn’t know what to do with my hands. “I don’t know,” I finally said, and he nodded, deep in thought.

“That’s a fair answer,” he said lightly. “I’d wondered if you’d given any thought to the decisions I make and the possible reasons why.”

I stared at him, thoughts racing through me. I didn’t . . . I didn’t know what to think anymore.

His expression blanked, and my sadness began to creep back. I knew where his thoughts had gone. “I’m sorry about Bis,” he said. “I know it hurts.”

And yet I managed to smile. He did know. He knew the guilt, the panic, and the strength it took to focus that energy on finding a way out. “Thank you,” I said, refusing to cry in front of him again. He smelled like rain and leather over the scent of his aftershave, and my throat tightened and my vision threatened to swim again. “I’m sorry about Ceri and Lucy. I don’t know how you can keep moving forward.”