She shook herself and blinked. I’m tired, she thought. She hadn’t slept since before Holt was shot. And she was no longer sure what time it was—it was so hard to tell without checking the computer, here on this ship without windows. The tired human brain created illusions, misfired the wrong hormones and chemicals after a long enough period without rest. She knew this. That’s all there is to it, Park told herself, shivering. I’m tired. That’s the only thing that’s wrong with me.

“Park?” Fulbreech was giving her a concerned look.

“It’s nothing,” Park said. She stepped past him to look at the trio of doors. “Let’s just get this over with. Are you going to help me look?”

Fulbreech sighed. “Yes,” he said heavily. “Only to keep you out of trouble. But there’s nothing there.”

“We’ll see,” Park said.

So they proceeded with their search. The doors Park had seen Boone guarding were plain things, innocuous-looking enough: they were made of the same dingy-gray plate metal that enclosed any other supply closet or cargo hold on the ship. Each door had its own separate palm lock, a simple biometric guard that scanned the faces and fingerprints of authorized crewmembers. For a simple utility room, every member should have access—if there was nothing inside to hide.

Fulbreech reached for the left door, but Park, remembering that Boone had stood in front of the middle, said, “No. The center one.”

Fulbreech cast her a sidelong glance before laying his palm against the middle lock. Park tensed, half-expecting some alarm to go off, or a booby-trap—but almost immediately she heard the grating and tumbling of the door’s mechanism unlocking. The door slid open, and Fulbreech ducked inside.

Park waited, staring into the darkness of the closet. It seemed impossibly small, hardly bigger than a broom closet. Fulbreech’s shoulders nearly touched both walls. “You see,” he said, turning to look at her in a resigned way. “Nothing.”

Park immediately suspected foul play. He knew there was something in that room; she knew it, too. Boone had been guarding something.

She squeezed herself in with him, then regretted it immediately; the tininess of the space forced her to cram herself up against his chest. She looked away, ignoring the heat coming off his decksuit, and felt around, stroking the walls, running her hands along the shelves. But there was nothing. The room was bare, aside from a few common tools and cleaning devices. Fulbreech even clicked on the cranky, unflattering light to help her search.

Nothing.

Eventually Park squirmed her way out of the little room. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would Boone shoot Holt for this?”

Fulbreech squeezed out after her. “I told you,” he said. “It’s not about the room. Boone was just trigger-happy—or scared of Holt. His gut reaction was to shoot first, ask questions later.”