“Yeah, really important. In fact, I booked us both a session on Saturday at this Bikram place that I think—”

“I’m not going to that. Which moment?”

“What? I already paid for the—”

“Which moment is it important to live in?”

“Well, that’s the whole point—”

“Could it be any moment? Like, could it be the moment Matty was clutching at you, crying on you, falling on you?” Another match-head flare of a smile. “Could it be the moment he grabbed your hand and you chubbed up?”

“I didn’t chub up. I’m a professional. I’m a professional detective. And Matty’s just a kid, he’s barely—I mean, why are we even talking about this? There’s nothing to—I don’t even know how we got on this topic.”

“The moment. That moment you popped a boner so hard you just about tore through your nice, new yoga pants. And then what would we do on Saturday?”

“I, um. I have another pair. They were having a sale. And I’m so glad you said ‘we’ because the class fee isn’t refundable and I really think you’ll—”

“No, that was just a figure of speech. I’m definitely not doing yoga with you. I was just pointing out the potential problem of that raging hard-on.”

Shaw’s throat and mouth were dry. Very dry. “I don’t have a raging—” Then, “What you said, that didn’t happen, so you can just drop it, ok?”

“Sure.”

“Great.”

North gestured to the door. “After you?”

“I’m.” Shaw twisted in his seat. “I’m going to sit here for a minute. To do some thinking.”

“Because you’re a professional detective.”

“Right.”

“You are pathetic.”

Shaw sighed. “I know.”

Chapter 4

North and Shaw left the Borealis office at six, when the April sun was just a drowning ember on the horizon. Matty didn’t have any more information about the man who had filmed him, but he paid their retainer in cash. The cash was all North wanted out of the boy; North wasn’t sure he would have trusted any more information about the case. He didn’t like Matty Fennmore. Shaw had been right—brutally right—about their need for a client, and so North accepted the fact that they were, for the moment, employed by the boy. But North didn’t have to like it.

Their office, located in the house that Shaw owned courtesy of a trust fund left by his grandfather—against his parents’ wishes—had a garage, but North never used it anymore. Part of it was the inconvenience of doubling back through the alley. Part of it was parking his maroon 1990 Dodge Grand Caravan next to Shaw’s sleek little Mercedes SLC 300. The juxtaposition was painful enough, but what was worse was the way it reminded North of the Chevelle. Tucker had been right about selling it; they had needed to sell it to pay all the legal fees. But there was something offensive about seeing the Grand Caravan in the Chevelle’s place, and street parking was plentiful in Benton Park, a small neighborhood on the south side of St. Louis—and North didn’t worry about anyone jacking the rusted-out minivan.