“I told you,” I said, hating how exhaustion darkened my voice, “I was at the museum because I like art. I’m not a thief.”

The officer across from me wore a striped button-down shirt and a badge that labeled him as a special investigator. His thin goatee failed to cover his weak chin, which only served to accentuate the lumps on his narrow nose, making it look crooked. “And the painting?”

I said, “The lady waiting for me isn’t really the kind of lady a person stands up.”

He shuffled his notes. “Would that be one Miss Charlotte Beck? We’d very much like to talk to her as well. Where did you say she’s waiting for you?”

I pressed my lips together. Any two-bit thug knows not to say anything at a police interview. Harder said than done. “I’m excommunicated.”

Without looking up, he said, “That doesn’t mean you’re above the law, Mr. Demarco.”

It didn’t feel like the appropriate time to argue.

He continued, “I’m certain down in the Heavies they have different ideas about the rule of law. Up here, we take it seriously.” His eyes locked with mine for the first time in the interview. “Quite seriously.”

What a prick.

The investigator took a few minutes to make a long show of not being interested in me. He shuffled papers, clicked his tongue, and made notes with his pen. After a while, he looked up as if only then remembering he’d been keeping me in his interrogation room. “I’m going to go over things one more time if you don’t mind.”

I definitely minded.

“A ship comes from Earth, landing in the Heavies because that’s the best place to land if you don’t want a full audit of your cargo. Once it’s there, someone smuggles the goods—art or whatnot—into a shipping crate made to look like it’s originating from the Heavies.” At this, he pressed his pen to his lips and clicked his tongue a few times. “That right there is illegal. It’s both a tax law violation and a violation of Customs and Imports. Important stuff, too, because foreign shipments can carry diseases or other problems for our enclosed habitats. Does this sound about right to you?”

No telling if he was referring to the disease transmissions or the smuggling operation, so I answered, “Sounds like a good reason to inspect shipments from the Heavies.”

“We do, we do. I’m not customs, though, Mr. Demarco. I’m police.”

“Of course.”

“It’s a different department, you see, and they don’t much like us telling them how to do their jobs.”

“But that’s what you’d like to do anyway.” He probably wanted it even more because someone told him not to.

“We’re just trying to keep crime down,” he said. “So, once you have the shipment over here in Onegee, you unpack it and shop it around to buyers. Not too many private citizens willing to deal in illicit merchandise, so you’re left with a hard choice. Move up the rosary or start pushing to museums.” He leaned forward. “You and I both know there’s no museum in this bead that’ll take stolen goods, so your operation depends on being able to pass off fake documents.”

If he wanted me to say I’d been forging documents he’d need to lean on me a lot harder. This special investigator had put together so much of what I was still discovering, that he’d hooked me in. I leaned forward. “Why do that when a trip up to the Hallows would put the art in front of a dozen wealthy buyers.”

“A hundred.” The officer said it with an expression like he’d just bit into a lemon. “But customs to the Hallows is a lot tighter than here in Onegee. They don’t trust us for the time of day.”

So, that’s why Vitez needed to stop in Onegee. He’d gone to the museum for paperwork showing that the painting was legit. Those weren’t the kind of documents he could forge—not being new to Nicodemia’s elaborate bureaucracy, anyway. He probably figured he could get approval from one of the museums in exchange for a new, accurate scan. Then he’d head up the chain to the Hallows to make his real sale—a sale he probably already had lined up.

But to who?

After a few more hours of circular questioning, the officer led me back to a cell. One wall of the cell was clear resin, with holes providing an entirely inadequate form of ventilation. A tinny speaker somewhere played bubbly jazz, its relentless energy dissipating on the fiberstone walls like waves crashing on rocks.

“Can I get you to turn that off?” I asked.

The officer didn’t even bother to answer. He slid the door shut and left me to slump on the hard bed. I lay back and closed my eyes. They’d taken my hat, my coat, my music. Everything I owned in the whole world was lost.

The music stopped mid-solo, which turned out to be the only thing worse than continuing. After several long, silent seconds, the lights dimmed, then switched entirely off. I let out a long breath. Darkness swallowed me again, welcoming me into its cold embrace. Would the police of Onegee Nicodemia forget I was back here when their computer didn’t register my presence? Would Onegee’s Trinity let me die of thirst here in a little fiberstone cell in the middle of its poorest district?

The long silence stretched thin. I sat up, unable to rest due to the jittery energy bouncing around my skull. My hands shook, but I wanted another coffee.

My eyes adjusted to a glow that I couldn’t quite place.

They hadn’t taken everything. I thought of Retch living in his little hole in the corner of an abandoned warehouse. Even Retch was wealthier than me, but was he happier? Was he more content? I didn’t think so. I had my sister. After everything that had happened, I still had family. There would always be someone I could rely on for food and shelter. I could contact her. She’d come get me.

When I looked up, he was there—a dark silhouette in the negative space of the abandoned hall. His solid form didn’t move, and it was hard to be certain of his presence.

“It’s not visiting hours,” I said.

His voice rolled through the gaps in the clear resin wall like broken gravel. “Wanted to check that you’d stay put this time.”

I knew that voice. “You’re the guy who followed me from the gambling hall.”

“I have no problem if you do your job, Demarco. Just take a few days off first.”

“We’re the same,” I said. “You’re excommunicated, just like me. A handyman.”

His face was a blot of shadow in the darkness, but I sensed affirmation in the tone of his voice. “You’ll get your painting when I’ve finished what I need to finish.”

“See, I was thinking we could team up.”

“You’re on the wrong side in all this, Demarco.”

My mind raced trying to grasp the implications of his words. Wrong side? What side was I on? I had an employer who was looking for a painting. What could the other side possibly be? Did this guy work for Vitez? If that was the case, why did it look like he was on the same trail I was? Why was he so set on delaying me a few days? I’d have asked him, but I got the distinct feeling he’d dodge my questions.

Instead, I asked, “Did you kill McCay?”

I couldn’t see his expression in the dim glow, but his weight shifted back on his heels.

“See, it must have happened in the room in his apartment that Trinity couldn’t see. The only people who have back access to that space are some kids. Now, kids can be rough, but I don’t think these tykes are this violent.” I pressed my palms against the glass. “But you could get in there without Trinity taking notice. You could murder McCay and leave a hell of a mess to clean up.”

His back pressed against the far wall. I could feel his gaze rolling over me.

“Only, what I can’t figure out is why? My best guess is McCay knew something about you and he was threatening to sing.” I glanced up at the speakers, which still stayed silent. “The wrong song is worse than none at all, don’t you think? You thought he’d spill once you stopped delivering his meds, so you did him in. Only, he didn’t spill. He came to me. I had the meds for him, right in my hand. Ready to take care of his needs. He didn’t need to die.”

Shadows shifted, and my voice rang against an empty hall. The other handyman was gone. I crossed to the little sink, splashed some water on my face, and lay down on the bed breathed in a dark so oppressive it lingered in the brain.