The bottle had a price sticker on it that looked familiar. Maybe if I hadn’t been distracted, if I had said something more into the silence on the phone, Fusk would’ve ended it there. Maybe I’m kidding myself.

After a long moment, Fusk gave me an address two towns over. The address felt familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“It’s in a … The place is a kind of repair shop now.”

“So?”

“R.S. runs it.”

A pure spike of energy. That would explain why I hadn’t found an R.S. who ran a taxidermy business. I’d checked antiques stores, too.

“What’s R.S. stand for?” I tried not to let my elation show in my voice.

“Ronnie Simpson.”

“And how do you know Ronnie Simpson?”

“How does anyone know anyone these days?”

“Suddenly a philosopher.”

“You’re the detective—figure it out.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

Stupid thing to say, but I had picked up the bottle, not thinking about fingerprints or gloves. Nothing unusual about it, and clear enough that I could tell nothing was inside.

“I can’t ask the questions for you, Detective.”

“Call me if you do think of anything.” I gave him a secure number, to a burner phone I hadn’t used for anything else, and tossed the bottle onto the ground.

“Yeah, right. You can be sure I won’t.” Then, with a click, he was gone.

Conclusion, staring at the heavy tread, the cigarette butts: someone was fucking with me. The drone was strangely like an offering. But it also told me whoever stalked me was sophisticated enough to take out the neighborhood surveillance.

Was Fusk fucking with me, too, with his claim about R.S.? The levels kept changing, like in MMA. You’d think it was a boxer’s advantage and then the ground game would kick in.

I stood there in the woods for a long time, thinking. Going round and round. Trapped. Frozen. What did the world want from me? What did Silvina need? What did I need? A pattern of cigarette butts in a rough circle on the ground told me the answer. A bottle with a familiar sticker.

Wanting to break out from the trap.

So I tried. I did my best.

[48]

“There’s no one they won’t kill in time because you don’t matter to them. There is nothing they won’t take from you. Because they simply don’t care.”

A call with Fusk. An intruder in the backyard again. A missing hummingbird.

I had finally placed the address Fusk had given me: it was Unitopia, the environmental center funded by Silvina’s family. I devoted a moment to kicking myself for not investigating it already.

“They’ll use you against you. They’ll isolate you. They’ll marginalize you. They’ll use lies and the truth. Whatever they need. Because they don’t care.”