“What do you mean, ‘changed’?”

“It has to end.”

“What do you mean?”

“That was Brooke’s confession. When the phone rings, do you know what she hopes?”

Myron shook his head.

“That it’s the police. That they’ve finally found Rhys’s body. Do you understand what I’m saying? The not knowing—the hope—has become more painful than death. And that just makes the tragedy all the more obscene. It is horrible enough that you make a mother suffer like this. But this, she told me—wishing, no matter what, that it would just end—was even worse.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

Then Win said, “Hey, how about those Knicks?”

“Funny.”

“You need to be loose.”

“Where are we going?”

“Back to King’s Cross.”

“Where you can’t really show your face.”

“I’m extraordinarily handsome. People remember me.”

“Ergo needing my help.”

“Glad my absence hasn’t dulled your sharp investigative tools.”

“So tell me everything,” Myron said. “Let’s make a plan.”

Chapter 4

When they drove past the train station, Myron read the sign and said, “King’s Cross. Isn’t that from Harry Potter?”

“It is.”

Myron took another look. “Cleaner than I expected.”

“Gentrification,” Win said. “But you never really get rid of the dirt. You just sweep it into dark corners.”

“And you know where those dark corners are?”

“I was told in the email.” The Bentley came to a stop. “We can’t get any closer without the risk of being seen. Take this.”

Win handed him a smartphone.

“I have a phone,” Myron said.

“Not like this one. It’s a complete monitoring system. I can follow you via GPS. I can listen in on any conversations via microphones. I can see what you see via the camera.”

“The key word,” Myron said, “is ‘via.’”

“Hilarious. Speaking of a key word, we will need a distress signal if you get into trouble.”

“How about ‘help’?”

Win looked at him blankly. “I. Missed. Your. Humor.”

“Remember when we first started out?” Myron couldn’t help but smile. “I would call you on the old cell phones and you would listen in.”

“I remember.”

“We thought we were so high tech.”

“We were,” Win said.

“Articulate,” Myron said.

“Pardon?”

“If I’m in trouble, I’ll say ‘articulate.’”

Myron headed out past the station. He realized that he was whistling a show tune—“Ring of Keys” from Fun Home—as he walked. That might strike some as odd. This situation was, after all, horrible and dangerous and deadly serious, but he’d be lying to himself if he said it wasn’t also a thrill to be working with Win again. Most of the time, it was Myron who kicked off their often foolhardy rescue missions. In fact, come to think of it, it had always been Myron. Win had been the voice of caution, the sidekick dragged along, joining in more for the fun of it than for any form of justice.

At least, that was Win’s claim.

“You,” Win would tell him, “have a hero complex. You think you can make the world better. You are Don Quixote tilting at windmills.”