I reach my car and jump in. There are flashlights somewhere behind me. Too soon for cops; probably campus security, armed with Tasers.

I drive just above the speed limit. Anything less is considered suspicious in Texas. A passing patrol car might conclude that I had been drinking.

Finally I make it home, and lock the door. Safe, for now. An hour later I’ve showered and washed my clothes, then showered again. I’ve brushed my teeth so hard the enamel hurts. I’ve shone a UV torch over the interior of my car, the radiation unravelling any DNA left behind. But I’m still on edge. I messed up, badly.

You’re getting out of control. I push the thought away.

I’m scrubbing the dirt off the soles of my shoes when my phone rings. I answer, forgetting to sound sleepy: ‘Yeah?’

‘Good, you’re up,’ Thistle says. ‘I’m on my way to the field office. Want me to pick you up?’

Probably a good idea, so Warner doesn’t track my car to the office. ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

‘I’m hoping you can give me a hand with something,’ Thistle says.

•

I stand at the window, waiting for Thistle’s car. I don’t want her walking up to my front door. She might smell Elliott’s corpse. Even after dissolving most of him in acid and freezing the rest in airtight containers, I still can’t get rid of the smell. Despite the cold, I’ve been leaving the back door open to air the place out. It hasn’t helped. In fact, the smell seems to be getting worse. You got a dead cat in there, or what?

Maybe it’s getting worse because it’s only in my head. When I was a kid, all my clothes came from charity. Most of them smelled like urine no matter how many times I washed them, and I was never sure if anyone else could smell it. I don’t know much about brains—I don’t even eat them—but I think knowing about an odour might be the same thing as smelling it, neurologically. Like how hearing the word ‘vomit’ puts a trace of it in your nose.

On the phone, Thistle didn’t give me much information. Just that a severed hand had been found at the college, and she thought it belonged to Biggs. I got the feeling she knew more than she was saying. Hopefully that’s only because she wanted to tell me in person.

Her Crown Vic slows down on approach, like she’s reluctant to stop. Can’t blame her, in a neighbourhood like this.

I slip out the front door, triple lock it behind me and run down the path to the car. Thistle pushes the door open and I jump straight in.

‘Good morning,’ she says.