“I’ll find her,” Mookie says.

“We’ll find her. Split up.”

“Don’t kill her.”

“That’s what’s gotta be done, Mook. It’s time.”

“Just… bring her in. To me. Let me deal with her.” A voice asks: can you do it? Can you kill your own daughter? He knows he can’t. He’s had the chance. But something has to be done. Another voice: She didn’t do this. Bad as she is, she didn’t do this… “You owe me that much. I’ve done the work. I’m good.”

“Owe you. Yeah. Fine. I’ll call you if I find her. And if you find her? I wanna know about it. You hear me?” Mookie nods. “Don’t fuck this up, Pearl. Even those big motherfucking shoulders of yours may not be able to hold the weight of all this.”

Mookie heads toward the subway, hands shaking. Trying to picture Nora doing what she did – envisioning her smashing Casimir Zoladski’s head into the floor, cutting open his shirt, slicing into his back. Then the rite with the marigolds, the chocolate, the liquor.

Doesn’t add up. Can’t be her. She’s not that strong. She’s a little thing. A fraction of his size – if he’s the whiskey bottle, she’s the shot glass. The strength it would take to pulp the kid’s face against that marble, it’d have to be – well, either him or a Trogbody, because those rock-bodied sonofabitches are strong. Even someone burning the Blue Blazes candle at both ends would have a hard time making that kind of a mess. So Mookie decides. No. His daughter is not a murderer.

But Werth’s right. Everyone else is going to think it’s her.

And if they find out she’s his daughter, they’re going to think he helped.

As he walks, Mookie’s thinking about where to go, how to find Nora. Persephone. He hates that name. Daddy-o. That’s what she called him, wasn’t it? Back there at the bar. That means she really has been hanging out with the Get-Em-Girls.

So that’s the first place he needs to look.

Which means–

It’s then that Mookie sees something as he heads back past the Boss’ place.

A Lexus. The color of liquid pearl. It sits, parked across the street.

It’s dark out but there’s a streetlight above–

And in that car, Mookie sees a familiar face. The man from this morning. Candlefly, that’s what Haversham called him. The one traveling with the Snakeface.

Correction: the Snakeface killer.

Killer. Assassin. Like so many Snakefaces. Seducers of mind, body, soul.

Life-eaters, all of them.

Casimir was at that meeting.

Mookie feels his fists ball up and he steps into the street – a coming taxi honks its horn at him and slams on the brakes, but Mookie doesn’t give a shit. As he passes, he punches out one of the cab’s headlights and keeps walking, bits of clear plastic falling off his knuckles.

Suddenly the Lexus lurches forward, headlights flicking on – it zips out of the parking space into the street. It takes off, and Mookie gives stomping chase. Behind him, the cab driver is out of the car – a fat white guy with flabby jowls. He’s flailing his hands and yelling and pointing at the front of the car, but Mookie doesn’t care. He just skids to a halt, watching the red demon eyes of the Lexus taillights turn the corner at Park and disappear.