“No, no, no, just the truth, that’s all I’m interested in. The truth! And if it’s truth that exonerates MSC, then that’s just great.” Girdy chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Cover job. Ha. No, no, not necessary, just do your job,” he said, and then added with another tight smile, “thoughtfully.”

Girdy laughed again and pointed a finger at her, still smiling, as if to verify they were old friends just joking around, as if he hadn’t just all but told her to cover up for Merchantia’s likely negligence. Pals! And he was just speaking candidly, like friends did. He stuck out his hand toward her, and Rosalyn reached out slowly to take it. The ready sequence had begun, blaring through the corridor, a red light flashing over them.

“What’s going to happen to Reevey?” she asked, realizing he would feel how damp her palm had become. Reevey, of course, had quite clearly murdered his entire crew. No cover-up job possible there. “Will there be a trial?”

The handshake was quick, and in a flash Girdy was spinning away, striding down the hall, waving off her question just as he had waved off her desperation in his office.

“Dead. Hanged himself in his cell. Good riddance, right? One less mess for us to clean up.”

His voice echoed down the corridor, and then he was gone. Rosalyn worried the message chip in her pocket and felt her head go suddenly quiet. No more drums, no more panic, just a strange emptiness.

A murderer. A mess. Just like his victims, no longer visibly human. An icy finger ran down her spine as she rubbed her thumb harder over the message. She no longer felt certain she wanted this last chance. But the thought of losing . . . of going back . . . that was as good as admitting defeat. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that she needed to go, that the mention of her family business was no coincidence. She couldn’t imagine how Belrose Industries could be involved, but if they were, it seemed right that she, a Belrose, should be the one to get to the bottom of it.

Walters was shouting at her from inside the ship. It was time to go. Rosalyn yanked the message out of her pocket, considered dropping it on the floor and smashing it with her boot. But she kept it, sliding it back into its safe little place.

5

“Feeling better?”

Rosalyn was hoping they could sustain an awkward yet steady silence. She was wrong, of course, because people like Dave Walters loved, loved, loved the sound of their own voices. He was staring at her intently. The Salvager 6 buzzed with familiar energy, almost comforting, like the subtle back-and-forth rocking of a hammock in the breeze. But this was no beach trip, and Rosalyn’s palms had not yet stopped sweating.