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“Maybe the FBI have evidence they’re not telling you about,” Daneca says.
Sam shrugs. “Or maybe they want you to help solve this case and they think if they tell you it had something to do with your brother, you will.”
“That’s really paranoid,” I say admiringly. “I’m going with that.”
“You can’t seriously think that federal agents would lie in a way that would put you in danger.” Daneca seems exasperated with both of us, which seems just as ridiculous to me.
“Yeah, because they are tireless advocates of worker rights,” I say with plenty of sarcasm.
“Next up,” she says, ignoring my point because she’d have to concede it. “Sean Gowen.”
I hold up a hand. “Wait, how did Janssen die?”
“Going home from his mistress’s house, apparently. She says he left in the middle of the night and she figured he went home to his wife, which pissed her off, until she found out he was dead. Or, well, gone. No body.”
An involuntary shudder runs through me, like someone’s walking over my grave.
Middle of the night again. No body.
Lila told me how Barron and Philip sent her into houses as a cat. She could make anyone she’d given the touch to sleepwalk right out into my waiting arms. Then, although I can’t remember it, I transformed them. We must have been a hell of a team.
No bodies.
“Back to Sean Gowen,” Daneca says. “Gowen was a loan shark and a luck worker. That’s weird. He disappeared in the early afternoon. All the others—”
“He worked nights,” I say.
“What?” Sam says. “Did you know him or something?”
I shake my head. “It’s just a guess. Did he?” I want very badly to be wrong.
That prompts a hunt through the strewn files. Finally Sam holds one up. “Yeah, I guess so. Or at least he usually got home around four in the morning, which is pretty much the same thing.”
He was asleep. The one thing they all had in common.
“Do you have a theory or something?” Daneca asks.
I shake my head. “Not yet,” I say, lying through my teeth. I’ve told Daneca and Sam more about me than I’ve ever told anyone else, but I can’t tell them this. I think I did it. I’m the killer. I grip my knees to keep my hands from shaking.
No wonder Zacharov wants to hire me. All those people, gone. Just gone. What was it Lila called me? A human garbage disposal.
Daneca flips pages relentlessly. “Well, let’s look at the last one. Then we can hear your not-a-theory. This guy is Arthur Lee. Another luck worker and an informant for the FBI. Died out on a job for Zacharov.”
A cold sweat breaks out at my temples. Now that I believe I did it, every piece of paper seems damning. Every detail, a flashing red arrow.
Anton and Barron in the front of the car, me and Philip in the back with Lee. No sleep magic needed. Just a touch from my bare hand.
“The thing I don’t understand is—,” Daneca begins.
Our new hall master, Mr. Pascoli, clears his throat outside the open door. Daneca’s busted. At least it’s a new year and we’re all starting from zero demerits. I open my mouth and try to come up with some excuse for why she’s in a guy’s room, no matter how flimsy.
“I think this project of yours has taken long enough, don’t you?” he asks, before I can speak.
“Sorry,” Daneca says, gathering up some of the papers.
Pascoli smiles benevolently and walks away, like nothing happened.
“What was that?” I ask.
