“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.”

“Fine. If that’s what you want, I’ll talk to Jordan. I’ll tell her what a pain in the arse you are and that I can’t work with you anymore. No need to muddy the waters by dragging conflicts of interest into it.”

“I don’t think—”

“Look. Take tomorrow morning to think about it. I’ve got court again in the morning anyway. Daley can handle things here.”

Tyler can’t bring himself to answer. The thought Doggett might be on his side is laughable, but he seems to be offering a way out. It’s hardly by the book, though. This is exactly the sort of thing Jordan warned him about. But if he stays on the case and they find the answers they’re looking for . . . it won’t just help him and Doggett but Jordan’s career as well. Maybe she’ll finally make super, and he can make it up to her.

Doggett loosens his tie even further. “Just think about it. As my old man used to say, ‘If in doubt, do nowt.’” Doggett turns to leave and then stops. “Where’s your little shadow gone, by the way?”

“My what?”

“Constable Rabbani.”

“I sent her home.”

Doggett just blinks at him.

“What? It’s been a long day, she deserves a bit of an evening.”

Doggett shakes his head. “That’s very considerate of you, son. Only, did it occur to you to wonder how she was gonna get home without a ride?”

That was why she was so pissed off with him! She needed a lift but was too afraid to ask. How the hell was he supposed to guess that?

He can hear Doggett chuckling to himself all the way out of the house.

day three

Chicago, 1871

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Chicago, 1871

You lie among the overgrown, discarded vegetables and watch the shed as it begins to smolder. There’s a pumpkin, the size of a small dog, its unharvested carcass beginning to rot, lying inches from your face. The wizened husks of potatoes sit like blackened stones, their surfaces grown over with a furry gray fungus. The long grass that has grown up through every spare inch of ground tickles at your face and hands. Some unseen nighttime creature begins to crawl up your arm. You lie perfectly still and breathe in the faint smoke on the air.

The shed will not catch. You should go back, add more kindling, fan the flames. But you don’t want to move. You want to stay lying here, down in the dark undergrowth, looking up at the stars. You’re thinking of Ignatius Donnelly.