“The medics.” Grace wanted the topic done with. “She was pregnant when we hauled her out of the water.”

“Five months,” Rivera said. “They wouldn’t let me see her.”

“You were there?” I asked Grace.

“Yeah. I worked boat rescues during Abel. Scary friggin’ shit. Never want to get near a boat again, ’less I have to.”

“Pretty sure you will. We live on an island.” I turned to Rivera. “Can’t begin to imagine how awful that must have been for you.”

“Awful is bringing it up over and over again,” Grace muttered.

“Awful would be forgetting,” Rivera said quietly. “You’ll understand that.”

“You’re right there, sure enough.” I swiveled on my stool. “I’m going for food. You want anything?”

“No, thanks.”

“You gotta eat, Di.” Gracie leveled a finger at me. “Get her some scrambled.”

“You got it.” Eggs would cost more than my usual one-chit breakfast, but the girl deserved it.

In the line, I heard the name BlackAdder snarled more than once and brought it back to the table with my rice bowl and Rivera’s scrambled.

“BlackAdder. Sure.” Gracie set a fork into Rivera’s tight-wrapped hand. “I mean, it had to be.”

“How do you know?”

“Someone got a look.”

“One of the crew?” Like Spunk said, the whole point of snipers was not seeing them.

“Yeah. Or something.”

Or something. The rumor mill churning again, and Gracie always willing to put her weight to the wheel. Rubio said if we didn’t have BlackAdder, we’d have to invent them. Blame magnets, he called them.

“I mean, that’s the sort of lawless, vicious den they are!”

“Mine was solo.” Rivera studied her eggs thoughtfully. “Don’t Adders usually mob up?”

“More than one sniper,” said Grace. “Five or six, I hear.”

“I’d have noticed an Adder.” Rivera’s gaze wandered, as she poked at a memory she’d rather avoid. “I’d have heard bones and skulls and leather. I’d have felt them.”

My idea of BlackAdder was like what you get flicking a light around a once-flooded room: a flash of mayhem here, a slice of horror there, no full picture and all the scarier for leaving so much unknown. Adders wore body paint, it was said, or smeared themselves with rotten flesh and blood. They killed for fun and wore their victims’ teeth as trophies. When pressed for actual fact, Jake kept it simple: BlackAdder was a gang remnant that attracted every bad habit, imposed no discipline, and had gone off the deep end.

Rivera shook her head. “No, it was somebody really angry. I remember he yelled a lot.”

Gracie shoved the egg plate closer. “Let the girl eat!”

We were talking cross-purposes, and what was I doing, playing the rumor game? I hated where it took me. “What does Rousseau say?”

Rivera scraped her fork back and forth, failing to pick up any egg. “What can he say?”