From her seat behind the desk, Celia leveled a look at each of them and then said, “You’re fired.”

  The house creaked as it settled.

  “Excuse me?” North said.

  “You’re fired. You’re done. Send a final invoice; you can keep the balance of the retainer.”

  “Mrs. Chittenden, with all due respect—”

  “Get out of my house.”

  “—we’re the only ones who have made any progress in this investigation. We found an apartment that Flip has been renting, and we found a girl who has been murdered, and we—”

  “I didn’t hire you to find a dead girl,” Celia said, her voice swelling again. “I hired you to find my son!” With what seemed like a masterful effort at self-control, she took several breaths. “I appreciate what you’ve done. I’ll be sure to praise your efforts, and if you want to send a press kit to my assistant, I’ll do what I can to publicize your—”

  “For fuck’s sake,” North said, shooting to his feet. “We’re the ones that blew this case open. We’re the best in the area; you need us.”

  “As you pointed out, you found a girl who has been murdered. This is no longer trying to track down my runaway son. This is a police investigation; if Flip is in danger, which seems like a real possibility, I want the police to handle it.”

  “We—”

  “North,” Shaw said.

  North’s jaw clicked shut, and he headed for the sliding doors. Shaw followed him outside. He was pulling the front door shut when a hand caught it, and then Gavin slipped out of the house. He was crowding Shaw, the reek of coffee breath and now whiskey fumes making Shaw’s eyes water.

  “What?” North snapped.

  “Don’t even think about going to the press with this. Don’t even think about it.” He blinked, his eyes red and watering. “Don’t even think about it. Don’t even—don’t even think—”

  “For fuck’s sake,” North growled, planting a hand on Gavin’s chest and shoving him into the door. He turned and headed down the porch steps.

  Shaw cast a backward glance; Gavin was struggling to stay upright, the combination of North’s shove and drink making him clutch the jamb for support.

  “I will—” He tried the phrase a couple of times. “I will—I will—”

  He was still trying to finish as North and Shaw made their way down the drive, and the half-formed threat unraveled behind them.

  “This is the biggest fucking crock of horseshit I have ever seen,” North said. “This is a fucking joke. That’s what this is. A fucking travesty.” He kicked a rock, and it whirred toward the house and thunked against the white clapboard. “This is—”

  An ember flared ahead of them; Shaw caught North’s wrist, and North went silent, his head snapping up.

  “It’s just me,” came Francis’s weary voice.

  After a moment, Shaw and North moved forward again, but Shaw remembered their last visit, and Francis venting his rage with target practice. He remembered the revolver at Francis’s hip.

  Tonight, though, there was no revolver, no Stetson, no furious swagger—just a stooped man with the puffy, fleshy face of an alcoholic, his executive’s haircut spilling over his forehead. Francis took a long drag off the joint he pinched between two fingers, and then he tilted his head back, holding his breath before a long exhalation. The wind slashed the smoke into ribbons, and then it was gone.

  “Sorry about that. What you had to hear in there. Don’t know why I’m the one apologizing, but I guess it takes two to argue.”

  “That sounded like more than an argument,” North said.

  Francis was still looking up; the night sky was black, the stars hazy through the blanket of wet Midwestern air. “My parents argued like that. In public. I’d be eight, nine, and we’d be in the middle of Sears, and they’d take out the knives and go to work on each other over the price of blue jeans or a power drill. I’d go down the fucking bike aisle and look at the bikes and pretend I was a normal kid with normal parents, just looking at bikes. I smell rubber these days and it gives me anxiety.”

  “Lavender is good for that,” Shaw said. “You could carry around a little roller bottle of lavender and it would help a lot, I think.”

  The next toke was longer, and Francis coughed when he blew the smoke up at the stars and then wheezed as he tried to clear his lungs. After another long moment, he brought his head down and stared off at the wall of oak and pike, just a line of bristling shadows that marked a deeper edge of darkness. Wordlessly, he held out the joint.

  “Maybe just to be polite,” Shaw said.

  North caught his fingers, squeezed gently, and asked, “Should you really be smoking that?”

  “What are they going to do? Arrest me?” He laughed, which turned into another long drag, and then more coughing.

  “Mr. Chittenden—”

  “I’m going to ask you again. You never said yes, so I’m going to ask you again. If you find him, will you call me? Not her. Me.” His eyes were bloodshot, but they were surprisingly intense as they fixed Shaw.

  “We’re no longer working this investigation,” Shaw said.

  “Your wife fired us.”

  “That fucking cunt. Pardon my language.” He considered the joint, and then he squatted and butted it out against the glistening asphalt with a stoner’s exaggerated movements. When he stood again, he looked at them. “She fired you?”

  “That’s right. She said this is a police investigation now because there’s a murdered girl and Flip might be in danger.”

  “Flip.” Something like an echo of a smile crossed his face. “I haven’t called him that in years.”

  “We’re sorry we couldn’t find him,” Shaw said. “But I think we should leave. And I think you should probably go back inside and see what the police need from you.”

  But Francis stood there, weaving slightly, the night breeze stirring his Jimmy Stewart hair. “She fired you because—” He stopped, seeming to catch himself. “A dead girl in the city, and we’re paying two fag detectives to look for our son because the police can’t do their job. Those are her words, by the way. That’s what she said to me. How’s that going to look? How am I supposed to win this election if people think I don’t support the police?”

  “I don’t think your wife would place the election above Flip’s safety.”

  Francis’s bloodshot stare didn’t waver. In the distance, an engine rumbled, and lights swept past the Chittenden home, picking out the gravel shoulder of the road, flecks of quartz and mica, and then the car was gone, and they were standing alone under the bleary stars.

  “Out here,” Francis said slowly, “who do you think they’re going to vote for? The high-powered woman whose husband works for the family business, the woman who boards her son at an expensive private school so she doesn’t have to raise him herself, the woman who bails her son out of drug charges and has private investigators drive him to his weekly drug tests? Or the woman whose son disappeared tragically, the grieving mother who wants to go to Jeff City to fight for the rights of other mothers, help them keep their kids safe?”

  “What are you saying, Mr. Chittenden?” North asked slowly.

  “I’m saying dead kids get votes.” He put one hand over his eyes, and his shoulders shook like he might be crying, but when he spoke again his voice was clear and even. “Spoiled brats don’t.”

  “We need to go,” North said. “Goodnight, Mr. Chittenden.”

  He shuffled away from the GTO. “You’re not working the case. Fine. But if you think of something—anything—call me, would you? Don’t—don’t call her.”

  They backed down the drive. When they pulled out, just before the windbreak closed the house off again, he was still standing there, a charcoal smear against the perfect white house, watching them.

  Chapter 21

  THE BENTON PARK HOUSE was a burned-out shell: two of the brick walls still standing, the fire escape blackened and drooping like a burnt chicken wing, soot-stained rafters collapsing to drag the remaining asphalt shingles down and in. A ribbon of caution tape fluttered in the occasional eddy. The air smelled like fire, obliterating the normal aroma of hops and malt, but this wasn’t a good, clean woodsmoke. This was the smell of a fire that had eaten through textiles, electronics, wiring, plaster, fiberglass insulation—a greasy, chemical residue to every breath that made North want to take a shower, even though it was barely eight, and the Sunday morning promised a perfect day.

  Pari was crying softly; the bindi was a 90s shade of purple today. Truck was crying loudly. Hir huge shoulders went up and down with sobs, and Pari was holding hir as though ze were a child. Zion’s dark eyes were dry, but he kept taking off his headband and retying it, and his gaze never settled anywhere long. Shaw, balanced on one tumbled-down wall, was picking through ash and debris. He held up a piece of wood that had been chewed by fire and considered it. Then he tossed it over his shoulder. The clatter of wood against brick startled Pari; the only other sound came from old Mrs. Romero, who was trying to clean ash from the gutter with a rake, the tines scraping against the concrete in shrill, rattling strokes.

  “North!” Shaw stood up quickly, almost lost his balance, and windmilled to steady himself.

  North picked a path across the rubble to join him.

  “Emery survived!” Shaw held up the elbow-macaroni figurine. “Well, the part of him Celia didn’t break. I think it’s a sign.”

  “Is it a sign that he’s such an unstoppable asshole that I’ll never get him out of my life?”

  But Shaw was staring at the pasta figurine. His eyes were dry. His face was clear. He was swimming in a gray Chouteau College hoodie that North had given him, sleeves cuffed to the elbow, and the too blue, too stiff jeans from the Dollar General. The pair of old Adidas were North’s too. And North thought about all the caftans and tunics and peasant blouses and clogs, and he had to look down the street for a few breaths. He settled for fixing a glare on Mrs. Romero, that nosy bitch, who had given up all pretense with the rake and was now staring at them openly.

  “Why don’t we go visit them for a few days?” North said when he trusted his voice again. “Get away from this shit. You can hang out with your best friend Emery, and I’ll get a motel room and practice drowning myself in a stranger’s toilet, which would be moderately more fun than having to listen to him talk about the history of treacle or whatever the fuck he was going on about last time.”

  “The history of treacle-related tooth problems,” Shaw said absently. Then, looking up, he said, “North, I don’t think this was Ronnie.”

  The rake started up again, that high, metallic rasp. North balled up his hands and then worked the fingers open one at a time.

  “I know you think he was behind this,” Shaw said. “I know you think he tried to kill me to punish you for not doing what he said. But I think we have been doing what he said. We found Danny, right? And it’s only been a couple of days. I think he meant for us to see him on the Nonavie cameras, but even if I’m wrong, why would he make a move against us so quickly? It doesn’t add up.”

  “What are you saying? You think some stranger boarded up your door and tried to murder you for kicks?”

  “No. I think Diamond was right: whoever killed Hiwet did this.”

  The words were a bucketful of cold water. “Why?”

  “I think he’s panicking.”

  “Or she.”

  Shaw’s smile was tired. “Or she. They’re panicking, whoever they are. I don’t think Hiwet was supposed to die. She was collateral damage; maybe she figured out too much. But this is about Flip, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the night after we found Hiwet’s body, someone tried to kill us.”

  “Tried to kill you.”

  “But I don’t think they realized you weren’t here. We’re partners in just about every way that matters.”

  “Not bridge partners.”

  “Because you refuse to learn. I begged you to learn bridge. My mom’s entire bridge club would simultaneously orgasm and die if we showed up to play.”

  “That’s going to be in my nightmares,” North muttered.

  “My point is that whoever did this, I think they assumed we were both here. We were both supposed to die, and that would be the end of the investigation into Flip’s disappearance.”

  “You’re guessing.”

  “I’m intuiting.”

  North drew a breath and considered. “They’d have to be someone who didn’t know us very well. They’re operating on an assumption that we live together. They couldn’t know your craptastic list of one million reasons it’s better if we live separately for now.”

  “You’re very set in your ways. You keep all those dairy toxins mingling with the non-poisonous food.”

  “Reason number six: Shaw needs a separate washer for when he needs to dye his pubic wigs.”

  “It just says wigs! Reason six didn’t say anything pubic—” He cut off, jaw snapping shut.

  “Let’s say you’re right.” North glanced up and down the street—aside from Mrs. Romero and the Borealis employees, they were alone. “Let’s say someone wanted us to stop looking into this. Is it a coincidence that, when we survived, the next thing the Chittendens did was fire us?”

  Shaw wore a pained expression.

  “They’re shady as fuck, Shaw,” North said. “I don’t trust either of them, but at least Francis is upfront about his own agenda.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You didn’t feel that weird vibe? That house, those people, it’s like what the Donner party must have been like around dinner time?”

  “I like when you talk about vibes. Did you feel when we drove over that ascendant ley line—North, come back, you’re very spiritually sensitive when you’re not polluting yourself with carnal pleasures.”

  “You were polluting yourself with carnal pleasures for fifteen minutes in the shower this morning,” North shot back as he headed toward Pari, Truck, and Zion. “You left me zero fucking hot water.”

  “Are they always like this?” Zion said, riffling his tight curls.

  “Sometimes they’re worse,” Pari said, still stroking Truck’s back. “Sometimes they kiss.”

  “For the next few days, while we figure things out, we’re going to have to ask you to be on leave,” North said. “But we promise we’re going to find a new place to work, and we’re going to keep Borealis going.”

  “Paid leave,” Shaw said.

  “Well, I’m not sure—”

  “Thank God,” Pari said. “I told Truck you were going to try some neo-capitalist white privilege to get out of paying us.”

  “We’re not,” Shaw said.

  “We’re not,” North said, “because you’re not getting paid for a perfectly valid reason.”

  “Do you think it’s a coincidence that both of the bosses are white?” Pari said. “And your employees are all people of color?”

  “That’s not—hold on—” North took a breath. “Shaw and I founded—”

  Zion was smiling, just a tiny one, and ducking his head to hide it.

  “Fuck all of you,” North said as he stalked toward the car.

  “Great speech, North,” Truck called after him—the words only made worse by the one-hundred-percent sincerity behind them.

  Zion was laughing.

  When North looked back, Pari was smiling.

  He turned forward and walked faster.

  When Shaw slid into the passenger seat, North started the car, but he didn’t shift. He looked over. “Are you ok?”

  Shaw’s eyes were still dry, but he sagged against the headrest. “Oh yeah. We’re not letting this go, North. Someone murdered an innocent girl. Flip might be hurt. He might be dead too. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

  North wove their fingers together, kissed the back of Shaw’s hand, and pulled away from the curb.

  Chapter 22

  HIWET ZERAI HAD A room in Adams, which was yet another of the brick colonials that marched around the campus’s quad. It had been an easy piece of information to find; she mentioned the residence frequently on her Instagram feed, which was public. With the GTO parked on the edge of campus, North rummaged through the trunk. He settled on a black windbreaker with the initials CST on the sleeves and back.

  As he shrugged into it, Shaw said, “Sexy piano tuner?”

  “What?”

  “Last time you wore that, you were a sexy piano tuner. Conestoga and Sons Tuning. It was that lady who dressed up all her cats like Victorian princesses and you made me stay for the princess parade.”

  Closing the trunk lid, North said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. She thought her neighbor had stolen one of her cats, and you were mad because I said you were prickly with clients sometimes, so you decided to bond with her, and you started talking about how one time your dad was sick and you had to take care of his cats and one fell asleep in your lap and you started thinking about your mom, and then you started crying and—”

  “Ok, ok, ok. Yes. I have a vague recollection of that. Although I definitely didn’t cry.”

  “You did. And it was very sweet. I would have given you an amazing handy, but we weren’t dating then, and you probably wouldn’t have wanted one. Well, you might have wanted one, because back then you actually had a sex drive unlike now. Actually, come to think of it, you used to be randy as a goat, so you definitely would have wanted one, like that time we shared a twin and you humped me all night, but Tucker might have objected.”

  North thought about running away. Alaska, maybe. He could work nine months of the year on a shrimping boat. There was no way Shaw could find him on a shrimping boat. Then, smoothing out the sleeve, he touched each letter in turn. “Crime Scene Technician.”

  “Cool. Sexy crime scene tech. That’s a new one.”