Page 145 of Flint’s Strike

“That didn’t come in the manufacturer’s original packaging,” Nate says.

I pull my dad’s multitool from my pocket, extend the blade, and gently pry the memory card free, tape and all.

We stare at the card for almost a minute before Nate pulls an evidence bag from the small pouch at his waist, labels it with a Sharpie, and waits for me to tuck the card inside. We seal it, then add our signatures and the date.

“You figure he hid it on Wednesday after we talked to him? Or did he come back here to pick it up on this way to the station?” Nate asks.

“We might never know. But we will figure out what’s on it.”

Neither of us think we’ll find a damn thing more, but we still spend four hours clearin’ the apartment. Nothing major to report, but a few things to rule out. A few stray hairs that don’t match Kessler’s graying brown. A smear of dirt by the door that’ll have to be run against every person who’s been in this unit in the past few days. A single drop of blood on the living room carpet—though Nate bets me twenty bucks it’s ketchup. For all I know, he could be right.

By the time we emerge into the afternoon heat, the ME van is long gone, but the smell of poor Charlie is burned into my memory forever.

“Meet you at the station?” Nate asks.

My keys are already in my hand. “Last one there has to tell AJ why his conference room smells like decomp.”

“Low blow, Parker. Low blow.” As he slides his key into the manual lock, I’m already throwing my car into reverse.

“Sorry, Pookie,” I call. “But you can take credit for the memory card. And lunch—should either of us ever be hungry again after this morning—is on me.”

Eliot

The afternoon sun is slanting across the roof of my apartment building as I drag my ass up the stairs. I feel every one of the six hours I spent at the strip mall today. Every trip up and down the ladder, every time I had to squeeze my body through a utility chase—or worse, shimmy halfway through a crawlspace on my back to verify a smoke baffle.

As I reach for my keys, Umberto’s door opens, and the big man lumbers out with a trash bag slung over his shoulder.

“Eliot. How’s it— You look like shit.”

“You ain’t wrong. It’s been a rough few days.” I run a hand through my hair and catch another piece of insulation. Fucking hell.

“My sister made tamales. You want some? Might stop you from falling over the minute you get inside.” He grins, and I think about the acoustic tiles still in boxes in my bedroom.

“Eliot?”

Fuck. I lost the plot somewhere between tamales and tiles. I try to shake off the exhaustion, and fail. But at least there aren’t two Umbertos standing in front of me anymore.

“That would be great, man. Other than yesterday, I’ve been livin’ off of frozen burritos and whatever passes for coffee at work.” I shake my head. “It’s barely flavored water.”

“Give me five minutes to take the trash out, and I’ll bring some over.” He slaps me on the back as he passes, catching one of the graft margins. I suck in a sharp breath, but he’s already at the stairs, oblivious. Good. Explaining that…not happening.

Umberto’s as good as his word, back less than five minutes later with a bag full of fat, foil-wrapped tamales. “Shit. There’s gotta be ten of them in there. That’s too much.”

“Nah. I got fifty more in my freezer. When Graciella cooks, she cooks for days. You get some rest, Eliot.”

His hand is already on his door knob when I call his name. “Umberto? You might hear some drilling and banging for the next couple of hours. I’m puttin’ up some acoustic tiles in my bedroom on the shared wall.”

His dark brows shoot up. A moment later, he laughs so hard, he braces his hand on the railing at the edge of the walkway. “So work isn’t the only thing keeping you up at night? Good for you.” He sobers, one hand over his heart. “You’re a good neighbor, Eliot. A lot of people would have looked at that note and said, ‘Fuck you.’ Graciella’s making enchiladas next week. If those things work, I’ll have her make you a pan too.”

Two tamales later, I lay out the remaining panels, check my measurements twice, and heft the first one onto my shoulder. The bed’s in the center of the room—has been for days—and every time I get up at night, I trip over something or slam my shoulder into a wall because I’m not where I’m supposed to be.

I’d climb into the thing right now and pass out, but I want to see Parker again. Tonight, if she’s up for it.

The work is repetitive enough I don’t have to think, which is exactly what I need right now.

Measure. Cut. Apply adhesive. Secure with two drywall screws. Move on.

An hour later, I step back and look at the finished wall. Good enough. Not perfect. The grooves in the panels sit at a slight angle. I chuckle. Nate would probably take one look at them and have a heart attack. Then again, I don’t plan on inviting Nate into my bedroom.