They bundle me into the van. Something is on the floor inside, wrapped in a blue tarp. I can’t resist lifting part of the plastic. Yup, it’s another body. Six foot, two hundred pounds. Probably Aaron Elliott. His face is slack and gentle. He doesn’t look like the sort of person who would beat up a callgirl. But death has a way of erasing your sins, or at least making them invisible.

Warner could be lying to me. Making up criminal backstories for the dead, so I feel less guilty about what I do to them. I’ve avoided investigating this possibility.

Francis climbs into the driver’s seat.

‘Were you really late?’ Sariklis asks him, almost too quiet for me to hear.

‘Five minutes, if that.’ Francis is lying. Interesting.

No time to think about it. The van lurches into motion. No bag on my head this time. Means we’re not going to Warner’s office.

‘Can you turn up the heat?’ I ask, shivering.

They both act like they can’t hear me.

We drive through outer suburbia, where poverty has landed like a hurricane—and so has an actual hurricane, come to think of it. Car parts, rotting furniture and broken TVs litter the lawns. Kids pedal bikes back and forth, no helmets, ready to sell meth to the first tweaker to wake up.

An hour later, we’re on the west edge of Bayport. Most of the warehouses and factories look abandoned, some halfway through construction. I’ve been wondering something for a while: Once you’ve killed your body-disposal expert, how do you get rid of his body? Maybe I’m looking at the answer. You take him to a place like this, and pour a slab of concrete over him.

The van pulls up in front of a diner called The Crack of Noon. I can’t imagine many people working around here, or starting this early. But, against the odds, the diner is open, and it’s half full. A server is carrying a pot of coffee from table to table.

Sariklis hauls the van door open. ‘Out.’

I look down at my bare chest. Are they really expecting me to go out there like this?

Apparently. Francis drags me onto the street and pushes me towards the diner.

Some of the customers glance up at me as I stumble in. A young black woman’s eyebrows go up, and a middle-aged white guy smirks. But then they turn back to their breakfasts, like it’s not so weird to see a half-naked man get strong-armed into a diner at dawn.