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Fox immediately frowns. “Who’s that?”

Eric Morris ignores him. “Are you Wendy Darling?” he asks.

The kid’s frozen, holding what looks like a fresh stack of library books. She doesn’t answer. Instead, looks at Fox. Looks at me. Like she wants us to tell her whether to answer. What to say.

And that’s exactly the wrong move. Because it seems to be all the confirmation Eric Morris needs.

“You need to come with me, Wendy.”

CHAPTER 28

PAN

“I was beginning to think you were dead, mik.” Krye yanks on a dangling cord and an overhead fluorescent buzzes on. “Or maybe in jail.”

Not yet, I think.

His basement looks like any other basement. Washer, dryer, sink. Water heater, HVAC. Random shovels and rakes leaning in corners, fat open bags of grass seed and fertilizer. A punching bag that’s probably Zuzu’s, a dartboard, crusty cans of paint on a shelf. Normal shit. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I guess that’s kind of the point.

“You’d been so good at answering my calls!” He flashes me a smile that dies pretty fast when he can see I’m not in the mood.

I clear my throat. “Just busy.”

“Busy,” he repeats. “Sure, okay.” But he relents, and walks over to a wall of metal shelving stacked with plastic storage tubs, the big black ones with yellow lids that at anyone else’s house might have soccer balls or ice skates or camping shit for the family packed away in them.

Not at Krye’s.

“Agh, I cannot—so small, these goddamn labels.” Groaning, he leans back from examining one and fishes a pair of cheaters out of his breast pocket, which he pops on his nose. “Do not laugh. I am not so young as I look, eh?” He spreads his hands, waiting for the big laugh.

Not coming. Sorry.

“All good,” I say.

His lips roll together, like he’s thinking. And he doesn’t go back to the tubs.

“Late nights?” he asks.

“What?”

Krye spreads his hands. “I’m saying you look tired, mik.” He steps back next to me, peers into my face, too close. Makes me want to swat him away.

I don’t, because I’m not stupid. But I want to.

“I’m fine,” I say. “You need help looking, or?”

Krye stares.

“Not unless you read Albanian,” he mutters, after a second, and goes back to scanning his storage.

Me, I stuff my hands in my pockets and wait. Watch. No fidgeting or whistling or cracking jokes. I’m angry, too angry, so angry every muscle in my body is seized up as rigid as a coiled spring. And it’s cold down here, too, with the A/C blasting and all. Especially without my jacket.

Finally, he finds it. “Here we go.” He drags out a tub from the middle left, unclips the lid, and paws through the contents, what looks like a bunch of scarves, or blankets, maybe, thick and wool.

When he straightens up, he’s got one bundle in his hands, red and black zigzags, fringe on the edges.

“Lavenzka costs extra,” he says as he unwraps it. “Hand-woven, very high quality.”