But if it’s her behind these disappearances, then I’m in trouble. I don’t want to catch Warner. If she’s arrested, that means no more food for me. Which means I can’t be around Thistle. I’ll get too hungry. I’ll hurt her.

Also, it means Warner already has a new body-disposal guy. She can kill me at any time.

We’re in Deer Park now—a landscape of petrochemical plants, chain-link fences and towers of shipping containers. No parks or deer to be seen. ‘Turn off here,’ I say, pointing.

Thistle does. ‘So what’s the connection to this factory?’ she asks. ‘Was it in Biggs’s search history?’

‘Not exactly,’ I say.

‘Then why are we here?’ She squints at the approaching building.

‘It’s a sex doll factory,’ I tell her.

Thistle considers this for a moment.

‘I don’t think that answers my question,’ she says at last.

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 24

You can drive it, but it’s not a car. You can bank it, but it’s not money. The rich have blue, the cruel have cold, many Americans have red. What is it?

The reception is a narrow room not unlike that of the FBI Houston Field Office, except for all the framed pictures of nearly beautiful women. Nearly beautiful because if you look closely enough, you can tell the women aren’t real. It’s something about the eyes. Slightly too big, and none are looking exactly at the camera, or at anything. Other parts of the women are slightly too big as well.

A glossy sign above the desk has the company name in cursive font: She’s Alive! It’s a case of hopeful naming, since the women clearly are not alive. Like calling your son Rich or your daughter Chastity. Maybe deceptive naming rather than hopeful, like how North Korea is officially the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Or the United States of America, which aren’t especially united.

The receptionist is a young Latino man with a fade buzzed into his hair, slouching in his chair as he plays a game on his phone. I can hear the crunching and blipping as he smashes digital crates for coins. He looks up as we enter. ‘Help you?’

Thistle flashes her badge. ‘We’re with the FBI. Can we speak to the managing director?’

‘Alexandra Howard,’ I add—one of the things that popped up in my search.

The kid looks alarmed. He picks up the phone, and says, ‘Uh, hi. The, um, police are here.’

A minute later, a gaunt middle-aged woman with freckles emerges through some sliding doors. ‘Lexi Howard,’ she says, taking off a pair of work gloves to shake Thistle’s hand, then mine.

‘I’m Agent Reese Thistle, FBI. This is Timothy Blake.’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘We won’t take up too much of your time,’ I say. ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’