The absolute worst part of this whole deal? My rational side understood the score. A squamous collection of sublimated impulses and fears had metastasized as a thunderhead of evil to hector my subconscious. There was nothing I could do. Refusing to stay put, the interior darkness began to whisper and cajole during waking hours too.

■■■

Shadows of tree branches flowed across the ceiling of Meg’s bedroom. She thumped in the shower. She’d already ushered her son, Devlin, off to school and was prepping for a shift at the library. Minerva lay at the foot of the bed, twitching in her sleep as she gave chase to dream animals. Perhaps moa birds.

Normally some light calisthenics would be in order, and a few rounds at the striking post when I returned to my cabin. Sweat popped onto my forehead at the notion. I lurched into the kitchen and fixed a pot of coffee and waited for the myriad aches and pains to subside. Longer every morning. My left hand, dropper of water glasses, trembled as I poured. Death wasn’t even bothering to sneak up anymore—it ambled near with a cheerful whistle.

The house was cold. Meg walked in, sat next to me in a bathrobe, hair piled high in a towel, and placed her hand over mine—the traitorous one. There was much I wanted to say that I didn’t.

“What’s the matter?”

“I didn’t realize anything was.”

I appreciated that she tactfully neglected to mention that my hungover self reeked of booze.

“You’re giving off the furrowed-brow, heavy-lies-the-crown vibe,” she said.

“You know me; I brood.”

“No reason to brood. You’ve done a hero’s work. Honest to God good-versus-evil shit.”

We were going to skip right over my dubious influence on Devlin for the second conversation in a row and that suited me fine. Or it would rear from the bushes like a furious T. rex at an inopportune (for me) moment. That was also fine since it was later.

“Am I in the good-versus-evil business?” I lowered my voice for melodramatic emphasis.

She ignored it.

“Always were. These days you get to be on the right side, sometimes.”

“Can a man be bloodthirsty and civilized?”

“Do you mean, can a human being be a walking contradiction? Can he or she possess more than one side?”

“Which side is real?”

“Only a rube would ever fall into the trap of thinking any of them are. Your hang-up is you’ve got imposter syndrome. I’m a thug, not a REAL detective! I’m no Marlowe! Neither high intellect, charm, nor finesse are requisites to cracking cases. On the balance, I’d say that going on rampages and scaring the shit out of people works like magic. Face it, sweetie, some of the best detectives were thugs.”

“Loving the pep talk, dear.”

“The pop psychology question we used to get—if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be? Different question, same idea. If you were a hero—ancient hero, not a superhero—what kind would you be?”