Under the shower’s heavy spray, Matty had switched to David Bowie—a full-on rockout in the bathroom—and Shaw suddenly felt itchy, restless, queasy. He rolled out of bed, found a sweatshirt with a lolcat pushing its paw into a three-tier wedding cake, with the caption I CAN HAZ BIRFDAY? running across the top of the picture. He couldn’t find his capris from the day before, or the hemp pants from the day before that, or, for that matter, any pants. He settled on a pair of cycling shorts and dragged the sweatshirt down so he wouldn’t get accused of public indecency.

Downstairs, he found Pari eating icing off the top of a cinnamon bun the size of a rottweiler. She had somehow managed to fit a washtub into one of the desk drawers, and what looked like socks were soaking under a scum of soapy water.

She rested the tip of the spoon, piled with icing, against her lower lip. Then she pointed. “Your whole junk is sticking out.”

Tugging the sweatshirt down again, Shaw said, “Any calls?”

And he wasn’t really sure why he was asking. Early in the business, Pari had come to Shaw and North with a case—not for herself, but involving her mom’s girlfriend. At some point, it had seemed like a good idea to hire her. Now, looking at the tiny woman with the rottweiler-sized cinnamon bun and a desk drawer soaking her dirty socks, he tried to remember why.

“No calls.”

She turned her divided attention back to the cinnamon bun and the textbook. She had, Shaw noticed, moved past World War II. It looked like she was now reviewing material over the Vietnam War. As Shaw circled the desk, he felt a vague sense of relief that he had escaped being called a Nazi. Maybe Pari had felt like that was low-hanging fruit.

On the far side of the desk, Shaw traced the phone cord to the wall jack, where it had been unplugged. He held it up. Pari ignored him, scooping more icing from the top of the bun and turning the page.

Shaw plugged in the cord.

The phone on her desk came to life, and a moment later, the messages light began to blink.

“Can you check that?”

A rumble started in Pari’s throat. She turned the page again. Hard. Today, the bindi was the color of Cholula hot sauce. Shaw’s stomach growled, and he eyed the cinnamon bun. Maybe he needed breakfast.

“Pari?”

“What?”

“The messages.”

“I’m. Busy.”

“Yeah, but answering the phone, handling clients, that’s really the only thing you’re good at, and—”

“I’ve got a test to study for. I’ve got a boyfriend who won’t call me back and a girlfriend who won’t stop calling me.”

Shaw inched closer to the desk.

“I’ve got four more finals coming up after this. I’ve got a mom who won’t stop complaining that I should be a doctor instead of wasting my time on this civilization degree.”

“I know,” Shaw murmured, his hands coming up to rest on the desk—one on either side of the cinnamon bun. “This is a difficult time.”