“Don’t think so,” said June, talking as fast as she could think, relieved she’d shifted into another disarming body, the black-haired girl she’d used in Hutch’s office. “I was just walking past and saw you lying on the ground. Should I call an ambulance?”

“No,” said Victor quietly, rising to his feet.

“No offense, sir, but you didn’t look too well a moment ago.”

“I have a condition.”

Bullshit, thought June. Seizures were a condition. What she’d seen just now was death.

“I’m fine now,” he insisted.

That bit seemed true. Whatever had come over Victor, it was already gone. The man who stood before her now was the picture of control.

He turned, heading back toward the street.

June had a clear shot at the back of his head, but she also had the strange certainty that if she went for her gun now, she’d never get the shot off.

The air was humming with power, and none of it was hers. So June’s hand stayed at her side as she watched Victor go, swearing inwardly.

She should have killed him when she had the chance.

XXI

ONE WEEK AGO

XXII

DOWNTOWN WHITTON

SYDNEY Clarke was getting stronger.

She’d resurrected three more birds since the first, each feat performed using fewer and fewer pieces.

She was just setting her latest victory free when she heard the front door close.

Victor was home.

She hadn’t told him yet, about the successes—she knew he’d be proud, wanted to see that pride turned toward her—but she didn’t want to jinx them, didn’t want him to look at her and glimpse the motive behind her progress, the reason for her intensity.

Victor was too good at seeing through things.

Sydney shut the window and started toward the bedroom door, but halfway there, she felt her steps slow, something catch in her throat.

The two voices beyond were muffled, but distinct.

Victor’s, low and steady. “He was incompatible.”

Mitch’s halting reply. “That was the last one.”

Something pitched inside Sydney’s chest.

The last one.

She pressed a hand against her sternum, as if trying to stop its fall.

She realized what it was as it slipped between her fingers. Hope.

“I see.” That was all Victor said.

As if it were a mild setback and not a death knell.

Sydney’s head came to rest against the bedroom door, her most recent victory forgotten. She waited until the space beyond was quiet.

And then she stepped out into the hall.

The door to Victor’s room was closed, and Mitch was a dark shape out on the patio, his head bowed, his elbows resting on the rail.

In the kitchen, a piece of paper sat crumpled on top of the trash.

Sydney drew it out, smoothed it on the counter.

It was Victor’s last EO profile.

His last lead.