Brandon’s apartment door swung open with a reluctant creak, as if the hinges themselves disapproved of the intrusion. The air inside was stale, tinged faintly with industrial detergent and something metallic underneath.

  Buck stepped in first, scanning the cramped space. It wasn’t much bigger than his own place—one long room pretending to be two. To the left, a kitchenette with a two-burner stove and a stack of unwashed mugs in the sink. To the right, a fold-out couch permanently unfolded, the sheets rumpled but clean. A cardboard box labeled Belongings sat half-filled on the bed, containing a few neatly folded shirts, a pair of sneakers, and a picture frame face-down on the fabric.

  The closet door stood half-open beside a narrow bathroom. Its sliding track squealed when Hazelnut tugged it open. She flicked the light switch, bathing everything in a tired orange glow that hummed faintly overhead.

  Buck drifted toward the desk by the window. A jumble of flyers, torn envelopes, and half-scribbled notes cluttered the surface. The smell of paper dust mixed with the faint, acrid tang of the rainwater that streaked the glass.

  Hazelnut’s soft intake of breath pulled his attention toward the closet. On the top shelf, she had found a small carousel—intricate and hand-painted. The kind of gnomish craftsmanship where the horses looked ready to leap free if the music caught them at the right moment. The lacquered wood gleamed even in the dim light. She wound the brass key, and the carousel turned slowly, releasing a tinny, nostalgic carnival tune into the air. Beneath the base, a disguised knob pulled free a hidden drawer. Inside lay a photograph of a younger John Murray, his hand resting on the shoulder of a small, gap-toothed boy.

  Hazelnut’s voice was quieter now. "Brandon, we love you and we miss you," she read from the note on the back.

  Buck looked up from the desk. "Did Brandon not visit his folks much anymore?" he asked.

  She replaced the photo with a careful hand, tucking the memory away. "John always said he was just busy. That he’d come by in time." Her tail flicked once. "The carousel was Pearl’s idea. Brandon loved the carnival as a kid—they sent it for his last birthday."

  Buck nodded quietly and turned his attention back to the desk. It was covered with flyers and open envelopes, mainly junk mail. A single bill rested on top of the pile expressing gratitude for the last timely payment. Brandon didn’t seem to have any money trouble, just like the college student. That kid had been enjoying a full ride, three years into a bachelor’s degree with his sights set on a master’s before he was found.

  He frowned, Pazienza’s words circling back. Loans paid off before they died. Where were they getting that kind of scratch?

  Something glinted on the floor, half under the desk. Buck crouched and picked up a casino chit. Glittering Starlight Lounge was embossed in curling gold script, the surface painted with a clear glitter paint that caught the dingy light and refused to let go.

  "Ooh! Pretty!" Hazelnut said, suddenly at his shoulder.

  Buck jerked slightly in surprise, closing his fist around the chit before slipping it into his coat pocket. He moved on to the bathroom. The small space was standard issue—sink, toilet, shower stall.

  A jar had rolled against the baseboard under the sink. Buck picked it up and read the faded label. "Queeble’s All-in-One Skin and Fur Treatment? Brandon have a bald spot?"

  Hazelnut shook her head, her brows knit in concern.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The wastebasket nearby overflowed with crumpled toilet paper spotted with dried blood and short tufts of hair. Buck squatted, studying it. "Either the kid was coming down with mange, or something was stressing him hard enough to make him pull it out."

  He rose, bracing against the sink—and felt it give under his weight. The porcelain gave a muted clink against the linoleum. Running his fingers along the sides, he found hairline cracks spiderwebbing out of sight beneath the basin. Pulling back, he noticed the faint indent of a paw nearly three times the size of his own, the pressure points warped into the ceramic as if someone had clamped down hard.

  "Something was stressing him out all right," Buck muttered. "Something—or someone."

  They gathered the rest of Brandon’s belongings in silence and brought them back to the Murray apartment. The old couple’s thanks dissolved into fresh sobs. Buck waited in the hall while Hazelnut grieved with them.

  When she emerged minutes later, sniffing softly, she gently shut the door behind her. "So, what now?"

  Buck held up the chit between two fingers. "Now? We follow the trail. Gotta play the hand you’re dealt."

  *  *  *

  Behind the closed doors of the Crier Dispatch’s conference room, voices clashed hard enough to rattle the windows.

  "Someone is leaking information, Simon! This isn't the time to applaud their efforts!"

  "I’m not applauding anything!. But it happened in public. Akri, anyone in that diner could have heard the name."

  "And attitudes like that are causing our subscribers to plummet! Why pay for news when it’s outdated before the ink dries?"

  Krouri rubbed tiny circles against her temples. She’d rushed back from the diner, worked the whole night with Illani on the morning edition, and watched it all go up in smoke thanks to a three-minute radio broadcast. Half a dozen cups of coffee sloshed in her veins, but they weren’t enough to drown out her parents. Across from her, Tobias sat frozen with his eyes glued to the front page of that morning's copy:

  THE SIXTH STRIKE!

  Local Financier Accused.

  Simon took a steadying breath. "There will be other stories to break. Tobias? How’d those photos of Pazienza look?"

  Tobias didn’t answer right away. He blinked, as if surfacing from a dream. "Er... sorry? What was that?"

  "Forget the photos," Akri snapped. "This isn't some half-klopen tabloid rag. We need a major story, Simon, not filler. And I’m tired of being the only one pushing for it."

  Krouri’s stomach sank. Her mother sounded exhausted. "Mom, wait. I’m getting closer with the power plant angle. There’s something there, I know it."

  "I know, tweetheart, it’s just—" Akri pinched the bridge of her nose, then left without finishing.

  "Meeting adjourned, I guess," Simon said. Chairs scraped as everyone gathered their things. Tobias slipped out first. Illani gave Krouri a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before following.

  When the room was empty, Simon gave his daughter a faint smile. "Hey, kiddo. You doing all right?"

  "Oh, you know. Stressed, anxious, worried. The usual."

  "You did a fine job on this article. Be proud of it. Don’t let your mother—or our disagreements—slow you down. If you’re onto something, chase it."

  "Thanks, Dad. My contacts at the plants have been sending me what they can. Something will pop soon."

  Simon glanced at the door, then leaned in. "Don’t tell your mother, but I’ve been keeping a few things close. Might help you out." He slid a small key from his breast pocket. "Middle drawer. Left side. Be careful. And don’t burn yourself out."

  He left without another word.

  The key felt warm in Krouri’s hand. She crossed the hall to his office, pulled the shades down, and turned the lock. This was the most cryptic her father had ever been with her. There was a tingle of excitement in her stomach as the drawer slid open. Inside: a plain manila folder. She laid it on the desk and flipped it open.

  Photographs. Candid street shots with faces circled and names scribbled in the margins. Warren City Cooperative employees. On the backs, neat blocks of Simon’s handwriting—habits, movements, suspicions. Several were marked with X's and the word DECEASED.

  The last photo made her pulse quicken. Abe Gibbon. An administrator who'd been ducking her for weeks. Simon’s notes claimed he was a creature of habit: every weekend he'd have dinner at the Glittering Starlight Lounge. Always meeting with someone in a private balcony booth.

  Krouri glanced at the wall calendar. If the routine held, Abe would be there tonight.

  She slid the photos back into the folder and returned it to the drawer. On her way out, she froze. Her father’s hat hung from the rack—a grey felt fedora with a black band, passed down from her grandfather. She remembered the first time she saw its enchantment in action: a crowd brushing past her grandfather without a second glance, each convinced he was just another face.

  She hesitated only a moment before taking it from the hook. The brim felt cool under her fingers. Then she stepped into the hallway, Razzle Dazzle bound.