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a trophy, don’t you think? More likely it just got thrown under the sofa or something. Just keep a lookout, Jamal, okay?”
    He shrugged. “You got it.”
    I left.

CHAPTER 2
    Near the drafty-cold back of the house I flagged down one of the Forensics techs, a woman with the focused look of someone in the middle of a critical portion of her job.
    â€œHave you guys processed the bedrooms yet?” I asked.
    She just looked at me.
    â€œI need to make a phone call,” I said. “Can I use the phone in the back bedroom without messing up the scene?” I was tired of getting screamed at for my prints being at scenes. With my drug felonies, I inevitably ended up as a suspect for a day or two until I got cleared.
    â€œUm, we’ve processed for fingerprints, but . . .”
    â€œGood,” I said, and pushed past her.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I sat gingerly on the twin bed’s faded bedspread. An old treadmill sat at the end, and a small bookcase of odds and ends took up the rest of the small room. The large phone sat on the nightstand, beneath a lamp with an ugly shade.
    I had long since memorized Kara’s number. The receiver felt heavy in my hand, the keys of the phone all too real.
    She picked up on the second ring.
    â€œHow are you holding up?” I asked.
    â€œI’m fine, thanks for asking,” a man’s voice replied. “Is this Adam?”
    â€œYes,” I said cautiously. “Who is this?”
    But the phone was already being passed to Kara.
    â€œAdam?” Her voice was thick, as if she’d been crying.
    â€œYes. I’m sorry I couldn’t call sooner,” I said. I didn’t like apologizing—it felt like rehab every time—but I also didn’t like hearing her crying. Even all these years later. It stabbed me in the heart. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
    â€œThere was a death in the family yesterday morning,” Kara said quietly, in a voice that shook just a little.
    â€œI am so sorry. Do you need me to come over?” Crap, the husband wasn’t going to be a fan of the old fiancé coming over. What else did you offer in these situations? “I can help with arrangements.” Wait. That was even worse. Crap, I was terrible at this. “What do you need?”
    A pause on the other side of the phone. “Aren’t you going to ask who died?”
    I took a breath. “Who died?”
    â€œUncle Meyers,” she said. “They’re calling it a suicide.”
    If I hadn’t already been sitting, I would have sat down, hard. I’d known her uncle; we all had. He’d been surprisingly good to me when I’d been a self-righteous punk kid. I couldn’t believe he was dead.
    â€œHow?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s complicated,” she said, and her voice broke. “I need your help.”
    â€œI’ll help you however I can,” I promised quickly, and realized I meant it. “Anything, Kara.”
    â€œI don’t think it’s a suicide,” she said quietly.
    My stomach sank. “Enforcement is investigating?” Enforcement was every telepath’s worst nightmare: judge, jury, and executioner all in one, with absolute legal authority over telepaths. Since the Koshna Accords, they had absolute authority over telepaths, absolute. The Telepath’s Guild had saved the world from the Tech Wars, but they’d scared most of the world doing it. In return, they’d asked for—and gotten—the right to self-police. They could shoot any telepath in broad daylight on a normal street, no trial, and have no repercussions other than a PR crisis. Normals wanted it that way, in the post–Tech Wars world. But the telepathy police were fair, or at least that’s what we were taught, though my experience with the normal courts put some of that into question. Still, Kara was part of the system. She’d been