The words came out of his mouth, natural, unrehearsed, and yet completely bereft of any sincerity. A con man who’d learned his mark well. The brazenness of his tone broke the last measure of faith she had of hope in him. Her words would drill down, only business. “Where were you at 0145 during third shift?”

“In bed, I hope.”

“Alone?”

“The idea of community sounds great. But wasn’t no one trying to warm my bed that night.”

“You are pure class.” Stacia side-eyed him hard enough for him to want to fix his life.

Hondo straightened in his seat. “I’m just saying.”

“You see Paki at all?”

“Yeah. Right before I called it a night. You know how he does. Skulking through the hallways, walking around brooding like a storm cloud was in his head.”

“Where was the last time you saw him?”

“Don’t know. Dropped in for a minute when me and some of the crew were playing Tonk.”

“You sure?”

“He didn’t stay for the whole time, you know. Checked us out and kept it moving.”

Stacia made a show of sifting through his holovid file. His life in chapters and diagrams, the dissection of a career in charts. All a person would need to read a mark, all laid out. “According to your records, you come from a very spiritual background.”

“What do you mean?”

Her headdress lightly jangling as she moved, Stacia studied the anger that roiled within him. Though he kept his eyes trained on the table, it was there. In the way he balled his hands, knuckles flexed to explode the way he had gripped his flute. The purposeful blank state of his expression. So much rage.

“I have seen your story so many times I almost don’t even need to look at the details of your background. You’re a certain archetype. Come from one of those O.E. religious fundamentalist families. True believers. Devout. Scripture believing. Your dad worked hard, one of those self-made men. Went to trade school, became, what, a supervisor? Middle management? Work hard all day, come home to be ‘the head of the household.’ I bet your mom was the epitome of a different archetype. That ‘submissive wife’ type. Always had dinner ready when he arrived home. What do you mythicists call them? A good helpmate? You all probably went to church every Sunday morning. In time for Sunday school, morning service, evening service. Wednesday night prayer meeting. Anytime them church doors were open, your family was there. Front row. I bet your dad was one of those get-up-at-5:30-a.m. types, get his morning study of the scriptures and prayers in to start his day. And you were his son. His firstborn. His pride and joy. And you had to be that perfect model. Never talk back. Never question. Never make him look bad.”