“This will need stitches,” she said, touching my face. Amanda had a dozen or more strict rules about working with her, and one of them was that I never touched her. But the longer I’d worked with her, the more she touched me. She seemed to be holding part of my cheek up. “You want me to call that quack?”

I craned my neck and looked in the mirror again. There was a curved five-centimeter gash under my eye, hanging open, revealing raw red flesh. “That quack” was a coroner I’d befriended who saw to all my medical needs. I couldn’t see regular doctors, attend regular hospitals. Even to buy groceries I had to go two towns over, wear sunglasses and a cap pulled down low, and make sure I didn’t talk to anybody. In and out, breathing deeply and sweating, like a man on a bank heist. Once, I’d been the only face on the cover of every newspaper nationwide. When people recognized me, there were a range of reactions. Men sometimes tried to punch me. Women tended to go all cold, walk away, ignore me until I left. Old ladies shouted and pointed at me. I was terrified of having to see a dentist.

I took the washcloth and pressed it into the wound.

“It’s fine. I’ve got to go. I’m going to catch him before he leaves.”

“Who?”

“The guy.” I looked at my partner. “It was Claire Bingley’s father.”

“No way!” She slapped me in the chest. I winced.

“Way.”

“What are you going to do? You going to bash him? I’ll come.” She punched her palm, her jaw jutted. “I like a bit of argy-bargy.”

“I’m not going to bash him, I’m going to talk to him.”

“Talk to him?” Amanda balked. “About what, exactly? The dude just KO’ed you on the kitchen floor. Seems like he might have got his point across. Or are you confused by his message? I can spell it out for you, Ted—he wants you dead. He wants to shred your oversized head. Grind your bones to make his bread.”

“I got it,” I said. “But I think I have a right of reply.”

She looked me over, took in my injuries, seemed to assess my chances in another tangle with Mr. Bingley.

“You’re not in a good way.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Your employee health insurance doesn’t cover suicide missions.”

“Amanda.”

“Can you even walk? Did he get you in the nuts?” Amanda cringed in expectation of my answer.

“I don’t know. Everything hurts.” I stood.

“If I finally got hold of the guy who’d raped my daughter, I’d have gone right for the nuts,” she mused. “I’m not sure I’d have used a baseball bat, either. Pair of scissors, maybe. Icepick.”

“This isn’t making me feel better.”

“I don’t know why you’d want to go anywhere near that guy again.” She shook her head. “You got something to say, send an email.”