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husband.”
    “I see. I . . . I’m sorry for your loss. How did she die?”
    The guy paused. “Haven’t been watching the news lately, huh?”
    “No,” Miles admitted. “I’ve been out of town for a few weeks.”
    “She was murdered,” Mike Stafford told him. “Home invasion. Some drugged-up asshole broke in. Threw her down the stairs.”
    The news sucked him down. The gravity load on his guts tripled.
    “Ah . . . I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Could you tell me the name of the detective who’s got the investigation?”
    “You know something about it?” The guy’s voice sharpened.
    “No,” Miles said. “But Matilda called the day she died, and left me a message. I didn’t take the call, but the cops might want to know.”
    “Calm down, Amy,” the guy muttered, evidently to his wife. “Okay, don’t see why not. His name is Detective Barlow.” He rattled off a telephone number, which Miles committed to memory.
    “The funeral’s today,” the guy went on. “Six P.M. at the Merriweather Presbyterian Chapel. If you want.”
    “Yeah. Thanks.” Miles groped for words. “Give my condolences to your wife. I gave her a jolt when I asked for Matilda. Sorry about that.”
    “Yeah, man. Not your fault. It’s okay. Whatever.”
    Miles closed the conversation with what grace he could, and sat there, eyes squeezed shut.
    Holy fuck. Matilda Bennet? Tension mounted in his body.
    He’d thought he was as cold as ice, an orbiting satellite. Free at last, in his own lonely, fucked-up way.
    But he wasn’t. His belly clenched over the sick, greasy nausea roiling there. A wedding, a murder, a funeral. A desperate ghostly entity locked in his own head, pleading for help and rescue. A cryptic voice mail message from a murdered woman.
    It didn’t matter how hard he tried to stay anchored in reality.
    Reality was getting royally fucked, from every single quarter.
    Mud and rocks spat and flew as his tires jolted him out of the ruts and bounced him down the road, faster than conditions permitted.
    Who could have wasted Matilda? She was a harmless old lady, built like a brick, stumping along with her dowager’s hump and cane. He didn’t need emotion to be outraged about this. It was outrage on every level, even that of cold logic. A scumbag who killed nice old ladies needed to be wiped off the face of the earth. Like the polio virus.
    He’d liked Matilda. He’d hated to disappoint her. After all his big talk, all his good intentions, all his fantasies about being the brilliant courageous intrepid blah blah blah who saved the maiden fair.
    Reality was always such a fucking letdown. Matilda had been nice about it when he threw in the towel. She understood. Still, she was the kind of woman you wanted to bring results to. To get your pat on the head, your cookie, your sternly measured dose of approval. A strict but benevolent grandmother type.
    It made him . . . fucking . . . furious.
    He got gas at the station at the pass, holding his breath against the fumes, ignoring furtive stares. He must look strange, after weeks of sleeping rough and not much attention to hygiene, other than the occasional icy plunge into a mountain stream. He had to haul ass if he wanted to clean up and find decent clothes for the damn wedding.
    His smartphone found him the perfect trifecta; a drugstore, a motel and a big-and-tall men’s clothing shop, all in the same strip mall. No time to schlep up to Aaro’s lair for his own stash of clothes.
    The gods that protected speeding motorists were kind, even when he hit the I-5 corridor. The drugstore was his first stop in Portland, for toiletries, a comb, some razors. The fluorescent lights made his eyes burn, even through dark glasses.
    His motel room stank of cigarette smoke and room deodorizer when he got inside, but he breathed through his mouth and ignored it, heading straight for the shower.
    He stared at himself grimly in the mirror afterward as he combed out the caveman dreads. His torso