‘I keep coming,’ she says, and mounts me. I try to think about absolutely anything other than how close to me she is. My saliva glands are in overdrive. Other parts, too. I hope she doesn’t notice.

Thistle raises the pen, and goes to stab me in the heart. The nib stops an inch from my shirt. Her hair hangs almost low enough to touch my face. I can smell mint on her breath. I wonder if she’s teasing me.

‘So where’s the rest of the blood?’ she asks.

I look around. ‘They cleaned up.’

‘But they missed the calendar? And it’s not like you can wash those archive boxes.’ She touches the floor. Her finger comes back dusty. ‘This place hasn’t been cleaned. At least not within the last two days.’

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘So no one was murdered here.’

‘Then why the blood on the wall planner?’

Edwards comes back in. He wordlessly hands his phone to Thistle.

Thistle puts it to her ear. ‘This is Agent Reese Thistle,’ she says.

After a pause, she says, ‘Can’t hear anything. No service.’

‘Oh. Well, it was my attorney,’ Edwards says. ‘He was gonna tell you to get out and come back with a warrant.’

•

Thistle and I walk out of the container, blinking like newborns in the harsh sun. As the security guard promised, I’m already used to the smell. I nibble a fingernail, still tasting the sliver of dried blood from the calendar. According to the file, Ruthven was a blood donor. Maybe I could track down one of his donations. Confirm by taste that the blood in the container is his.

This is ridiculous on several levels, but fun to think about as Thistle argues with Edwards about probable cause. Tells him he’s not a suspect at this time. Gives him one last chance to cooperate. I already know he won’t take it. His jaw is clenched, his tasty veins bulging. He’s angry, maybe at us.

I turn back towards Thistle’s Crown Vic—and then realise I’m not the only one staring at it.

A group of workers are wading through debris between two hills of trash. One of them, a Latino man in his late thirties, slows down when he sees the car. He’s wearing a dust mask and carrying a milk crate filled with what looks like broken PVC piping. He finally stops, like a clockwork toy that needs winding. The other workers trudge on, oblivious.

I watch him from the corner of my eye, not wanting to spook him. He looks from Crown Vic—clearly a police vehicle—to Thistle, in her pantsuit and dark sunglasses. His eyes skip over me completely. I probably blend in with the garbage.

He starts to back away. I walk towards him, slowly, like a cat approaching a bird. He doesn’t notice. He’s still watching Thistle.

Then, suddenly, Thistle is watching him, too.