A coworker at Alpine Financial had told Farooq-Lane once that, neurologically, most people saw their future selves as a totally different person, and so treated them with less empathy, like a stranger. High achievers, though, saw their present and future self as one person and accordingly made wiser decisions. Farooq-Lane had immediately decided that her job as a financial adviser was to close the gap between these two selves.

She closed the gap for Declan Lynch.

“You’re here to make sure your family gets a chance to have meaningful adult lives,” Farooq-Lane said, with quiet surety. “You’re here to make sure there’s actually a world for them to have those lives in. You’re here because what you saw in Bryde scared you and you want your brother far away from him, because that’s not what your brother stands for and you don’t want his life to be defined by a single decision. You’re here talking to me because you’re aware you don’t have the ability to do this on your own. You’re here because you’re a good brother.”

Declan’s mouth worked. He was slick enough to know she was also being slick, but he didn’t disagree with her.

“My brother isn’t to be harmed,” he said. “I want to see you say it.”

The promise wouldn’t have meant anything if she were with the Moderators, but she wasn’t with the Moderators. “You have my word,” Farooq-Lane said.

Seven Three Park Drive, Boston, MA. That was all that was written on the card Declan slid across the table as he stood up. “That’s where they’re meeting Matthew. Bryde mentioned last night he doesn’t have another of the dreams he uses to confuse people and he can’t get any more until they’re out of the city. Is it true you killed your own brother?”

She was taken completely by surprise.

“You’re not the only one who has access to information,” he said in that bland way.

“My brother was a serial killer,” she said. “He was also a Zed. I didn’t pull the trigger, but yes, I helped find him. Your brother’s not a serial killer. He’s just a Zed.”

Declan Lynch narrowed his eyes. For just the barest second, he did not look at all like he belonged in this nice, civilized café.

“Don’t forget your promise,” he said. “And don’t call my brother that.”

Six. That was the number of scenarios Farooq-Lane ran through as she looked at the Park Drive address on various satellite maps. It belonged to a rose garden in the Emerald Necklace, a series of green parks chained through the Boston area. It was a bad location for an attack. Right in the middle of the city. Right up against the swampy fens that gave Fenway its name. Surrounded by the trees that gave Bryde his information.