The BD felt at once insubstantial and like an impossible weight. He raced to the kitchen, yanked the silverware drawer so hard it popped its rollers. Knives, forks, spoons scattered across the floor, making patterns like an augur's knuckle-bones. Thomas clutched a steak knife in a trembling hand, began sawing at the tape.

Evidence! Evidence! something within him cried.

He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. Dashed to the phone.

'Logan,' the voice on the other end answered.

'Sam! He sent a Blue-ray to me. Another fucking BD.'

'Tom? Slow down. What are you talking about?'

'Jesus-jesus, what if it's him, Sam?' No-no-no-no-no-no… 'Sam? What if it's him?'

Not my boy, please…

He stared at the thing: quicksilver reflecting a stranger's anguished face.

'Listen closely, Tom. Do not, under any circumstances, touch that disc. Do you understand me? You could—'

'What if it's him, Sam?' Thomas whispered.

He hung up, dropped the phone on the couch, scrambled across the living room rug. He cut through the remaining tape while crouching before his Blue-ray player. The phone trilled continuously, but for some reason it was nearly inaudible. An unearthly calm had possessed him.

Kneeling beneath the TV, he worked the remote control with numb fingers.

The phone stopped ringing. Shallow breaths. The disc whirred in its chilly womb.

The screen flickered to life.

The couch felt hard, like stainless steel—like a coroner's table.

'Tom?' someone asked gently.

Sam.

He pulled his hands from his face. Sam knelt over him, her eyes filled with tears. Gerard seemed to tower behind her, his expression somewhere between stern detachment and… Just what was his expression?

'Was it him, Tom?' Sam asked. 'Was it Frankie?'

He shuddered, exhaled, feeling something like twin incisions across both his lungs. How much more could he take? Should get my blood pressure checked, he thought inanely.

'Tom?' Almost a whisper.

'No,' he croaked.

Not yet.

He could remember Neil chiding him during exams. 'Your working memory isn't designed for multitasking, you fucking idiot. It's not as advanced as Windows. You gotta do. One. Thing. Ata. Time.'

'The televangelist,' he explained. 'Jackie Forrest.'

Then my boy.

Tears spilled down Sam's cheeks. She glanced nervously at Gerard, who remained stone-faced. How many rules had she broken, Thomas found himself wondering, by sleeping with him? Certainly fewer than by falling in love.

'What do we do?' Sam asked, sounding curiously helpless.

Gerard scowled. 'Wait for Atta,' he said. 'What else?'

Agent Atta wasn't long in arriving. The August heat seemed to roll in with her—not the brightness, just the heat.

'Tell me you didn't play it.'

Thomas was sitting on the couch, Sam at his side. Agent Gerard stood from his seat at the foot of the stairs, scratching the back of his head.