Pages of that shit. Pages and pages. And as Shaw flipped through them—his face flashing hot when he got to an unfinished sketch of North in a leather vest, and really, it was just so fucking ridiculous because North’s arms were way hotter than whatever Shaw could doodle—he felt a growing disappointment. That sense of clarity and connection he’d felt earlier had attenuated like a match flame. It was about to snuff out.

Shaw wanted to give up. North was the real detective. Shaw was just an imposter—Shaw had come along because of the attack, because Carl had died, and because Shaw wanted answers. But he had also come because of North, and now North was gone, and Shaw’s chance of saving Matty was lost. Right then, Shaw thought he would be better off going upstairs and playing dress-up with Matty. Maybe he could pretend to be a Renaissance lord and Matty could be the peasant he found poaching his deer—

Playing dress-up.

The dress mixed into Mark’s other clothes.

Jesus Christ. Shaw had been so stupid.

At that moment, Pari appeared in the doorway. “It’s not enough for you, is it?” She hurled a stapler, and Shaw ducked. He began rummaging through the desk drawers. He knew he had pepper spray around here somewhere, and he had the feeling he was going to need it—if not for the killer, then definitely to stop Pari.

She was still shouting at him. “It’s not enough that I have to sweep and mop and scrub until my hands are raw.” She hurled an unpopped bag of popcorn, and this one hit Shaw on the back of the head. It was kind of soothing, actually. Like a bean bag. “It’s not enough that you pillage everything like the North Vietnamese after the fall of Hanoi.” She pitched a roll of Scotch tape, and this one clunked off Shaw’s elbow. He ignored Pari, yanking open drawer after drawer. He needed to go. He needed to go now. But he wasn’t stupid enough to go empty handed.

Pari’s voice had reached a new, ringing pitch. “It’s not enough that I have to abase myself like I’m your slave, bringing you coffee on demand. ‘No sugar because it’s inflammatory, Pari, and see if you can have them whip the coconut cream into a lighter froth because I was reading about—’”

“It was my birthday,” Shaw protested, stretching to reach to the back of a drawer. His fingers closed around a canister, and Shaw shoved it into the waistband of the cycling shorts. “And you asked if you could get me something special.”

“Of course I did,” Pari screamed. “Because it’s always about you, everything’s about you and North, as though the whole world revolves around you. And then you ate my cinnamon bun.” She hurled an empty plate, and Shaw ducked, but not fast enough. The plate cracked against Shaw’s elbow, spun off, and shattered on the floor. “That would have been bad enough, but the other day Chuck was sick and you didn’t even ask about her.” She punctuated this by tossing one of her flats at Shaw. “And you wouldn’t let Nels hang out here, but you get to spend as much time as you want with Matty.” The other flat spun across the room. “I can’t live like this, being ground into dust by your incessant demands like the poor Vietnamese villagers after—”