This last dome was divided in half by the wall that housed vintage appliances, and an open, round door carved with vines led to a space farther back that looked spartan. A bench, a couple old chairs, some tools, boxes, and cans. Maybe someone else was back there, but I doubted it.

Ronnie had a wary look stitched on, which I doubted helped with customers. But, then, she couldn’t have any idea who I was. I liked that her nails were ragged and torn and her hands smudged, as she cleaned them with a rag. So maybe she did fix things. I liked the openness of her face and the light blue of her eyes. In some vague way, I felt I’d seen her before. Otherwise, I didn’t have an opinion.

“Are we alone?” I asked.

“That’s a strange question, stranger, don’t you think?” she said, putting the rag on the counter. The countertop was solid, so I couldn’t see anything hidden behind it.

“I mean, I’m curious how many visitors you get, with the center closed.”

Ronnie shrugged. “A couple a week. Most people call me. They don’t visit. I do house calls.”

“What do you tell them about Unitopia?”

Ronnie smiled. A tight smile. “What can I help you with?”

I didn’t like how she’d started to bend at the knees. Was already in the wrong mood or mode.

I pulled out the gun, pointed it at her. It looked so small in my hand. I’d surprised myself. Had thought out so many subtle ways of questioning Ronnie. This wasn’t one of them.

“Step away from the counter. With your hands where I can see them.”

I held the gun tight-in to my body so no one passing by could see it past my bulk. Hell, they probably couldn’t see Ronnie.

“I don’t keep any money here. There’s no safe or anything,” Ronnie said, hands in that universal “Don’t shoot” position. But calm, like she’d experienced this before or knew that it was coming. Or didn’t believe I’d shoot.

“Money isn’t why I’m here,” I said.

“I don’t think these parts will fetch much on the black market.”

As if she hadn’t heard me. I didn’t appreciate the fearlessness. Defiance in the stance. Best to get to the point.

“I want to know why your initials are scrawled on the bottom of a stand for a piece of taxidermy.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said. A little too quickly. Not what she’d expected.

“A hummingbird. Skillful job.”

“I wouldn’t know.” A cold, appraising stare. Like she was weighing the odds of a jail break.

“Silvina Vilcapampa.” Another client trick. If you want a reaction, strip out the context.

A rapid blink, a wince, no way to hide it.

“You know her?”

No response.

“You served two years for breaking and entering. As part of sabotage for an extremist environmental group.” Easy enough to get those records, once I had the name.

“They were going to poison a river for a mine.”