“Yeah, I wound him up so tight he had to let it spring out. A dollar. A fucking dollar, Roarke — just one big joke between them. And it makes me sick.”

It shocked, even appalled her a little, that her eyes stung, that she felt tears pressing hard. “It makes me sick,” she repeated. “All those people dead, all those lives broken and shattered, and this makes me sick? I don't know why, I just don't know why it churns my stomach. I've seen worse. God, we've both seen worse.”

“But rarely more futile.” He stood, took her arms, gently rubbing. “No reason, no mad vendetta or fevered dream, no vengeance or greed or fury. Just a cruel game. Why shouldn't it make you sick? It does me as well.”

“I contacted the next of kin,” she began. “Even the ones we found from before they started this matchup in New York. That's why I'm late getting back. I thought I needed to, and thought if I closed it all the way, I'd feel better. I got gratitude. I got anger and tears, everything you expect. And every one of them asked me why. Why had these men killed their daughter, their husband, their mother?”

“And what did you tell them?”

“Sometimes there's no why, or not one we can understand.” She squeezed her eyes tight. “I want to be pissed.”

“You are, under it. And under that, you know you did good work. And you're alive, darling Eve.” He drew her in to kiss her brow. “Which, to take this to their level, makes them losers.”

“I guess it does. I guess that's going to have to be enough.”

She took his face in her hands, smiled a little. “And there's the added bonus that they hate us both. Really hate us. That adds a boost.”

“I can't think of anyone I'd rather be hated by, or anyone I'd rather be hated with.”

Now the smile moved into her eyes. “Me either. If I keep that front and center, I could be in the mood to party. I guess we should go down and do whatever we're supposed to do before everybody gets here.”