Adesina came into the room. She’d changed from her school uniform into fleece pants and a T-shirt. They were specially made for her body. Michelle didn’t think she really needed to wear anything, but she didn’t want Adesina to feel even more different from other children.

“And this is my daughter, Adesina,” Michelle said. “Adesina, this is Mr. Clerc.”

Adesina half fluttered, half walked over. “How do you do?” she asked, proffering her claw.

Cesar smiled at her and Michelle was relieved. Though her daughter had a beautiful and sweet little girl’s face, her insect body made some people nervous.

“How do you do?” he asked, taking her claw and giving it a gentle shake. “You may call me Cesar, if you like. I brought you something.” He gave her the gift bag.

She pulled out the pink tissue paper and gave a squeal of joy.

“I don’t have this one,” she said, plucking the plastic figure of Misty Mouse from the bag. “How did you know I like Ocelot 9?”

He looked very pleased. “I met a woman called Ink, and I asked her what you might like. Apparently, your mother talks a lot about you at work.”

Mollie stepped into the musty darkness of a one-bedroom apartment in central North Dakota. Months had passed since the last time she’d been to her Bismarck bolt-hole. The air was stale, and the odor told it’d been far too long since she ran water down the pipes. Mollie went through the apartment, turning on lights and running the faucets. The two-by-fours that she had installed in brackets behind the apartment door still barricaded the entrance. A considerable layer of dust dulled the glitter from the jewelry heaped on the battered card table in the kitchen. A pair of roaches scuttled down the drain when she swept the shower curtain aside.

These weren’t the ritzy digs she’d always imagined for herself since the day her card turned—those had yet to materialize in a permanent fashion. But it was the kind of place where a person could pay a year’s rent and utilities in advance with postal money orders. She’d done that under an assumed name soon after Ffodor had taught her how to get a decent false identity. Just because she was raised as an unsophisticated hick from potato country didn’t mean she was stupid.

It was very quiet and very very private. Even Ffodor hadn’t known about her place. She sure as hell never told Berman about it. And she’d never had anybody over. Not because there was nobody to invite, she quickly reminded herself, but because she wanted it that way. If she really wanted to bother with it she could easily find people to hang out with. Easily. She’d just been too busy. For years on end.

She swept aside boxes and shopping bags until she’d carved out enough room to flop on the bed. A pile of laptops and tablets teetered at the foot of the bed, many still in their packaging. Mollie took one off the top, opened it, and tossed the box aside. It landed on another pile of unopened loot.