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“Perhaps his girlfriend’s worried about hostile critics,” said Angel.

“They tend to come armed with pens, not swords,” I told him.

But Macy and Louis were right about Zetta’s new guy, and had spotted it before I did. I hid my irritation—at myself, not them. Well, possibly at them as well.

“Has anyone threatened Zetta Nadeau?” Macy asked me.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Would you have heard?”

“Probably.”

“Then it could be it’s not her safety he’s concerned about,” said Louis.

“If not hers,” offered Macy, “then whose?”

I saw the boyfriend making his way toward Zetta again.

“How about we wish her well before we leave,” I said, offering Macy my arm, “and take a closer look at the newbie while we’re at it.”

We cut a path to where Zetta was accepting compliments, sincere and otherwise, her arms folded defensively across her chest, her smiletoo fixed. She wore a cream silk dress that concealed some of her tattoos and the absence of extraneous flesh on her bones. Her hair was naturally very red and cut short. Combined with the dress it lent her a resemblance—as Angel remarked—to a decorated matchstick.

I introduced Zetta to Macy, and she freed one arm for long enough to shake hands.

“It was good of you to come,” said Zetta, and the analogy of a wake arose again.

“This is quite the turnout,” I told her.

“I guess.”

“Is everything okay?” I asked. Clearly, everything wasn’t. Seen up close, her smile was not merely fixed but brittle, and she seemed near tears.

“First-night nerves,” she said.

Before either of us could respond, the new boyfriend appeared, placing a hand protectively at the small of her back. Zetta introduced him as Wyatt Riggins and presented us to him in turn, but got no further than naming names because Grace Holmes came along, men with money trailing behind, and Zetta was forced to turn aside to speak to them.

Wyatt Riggins was about a decade older than Zetta, and thin the way 304 stainless-steel wire is thin, so they made a good couple. His hair was blond, veering toward gray in places, and he wore it shaggy, though not studiedly so. His skin was tan and bore traces of sun damage around the eyes. As Louis had noted, he kept his jacket on, but if he was packing, it was probably something compact: the jacket was baggy, but not so as to be able to conceal a cannon. The way he carried himself suggested ex-military. His expression wasn’t unfriendly, but it was definitely guarded.

Behind Riggins, Angel ghosted by, barely touching him. Riggins picked up on it nonetheless, but by then Angel was gone. If Rigginshadn’t spotted that we were sizing him up earlier, he knew it now, and was aware he was being assessed by experts—or, given my earlier failure, some experts and me. I watched a veil descend over his eyes, like electrified gel activating on airplane glass as a shield against the light. He didn’t offer to shake hands, and I didn’t force the issue. He smelled faintly of pot, but that wasn’t remarkable. A good share of the city’s population smelled of it. You could attend a cremation in Portland and get high when the body began burning.

“Where are you from, Wyatt?” I asked. “You don’t sound local.”

“The South, originally.”

“There’s a lot of South.”

“Just the way we like it. We fought a war for it.”

“Well, that and slavery,” said Macy. She smiled at him so sweetly that only an idiot could have mistaken it as anything but false, and Wyatt Riggins didn’t scream “idiot.”

“For the most part, I’m not in favor,” Riggins replied. “Though I make an exception for the Chinese prisoners who sew my sneakers.”

He returned Macy’s smile. It emphasized his wrinkles, and I thought he might have had even more miles on the clock than I’d originally guessed. Still, I could understand why Zetta was attracted to him. He exuded a strength and shrewdness—and toughness, too. I’d have deliberated hard before crossing him.

“Where did you serve?” I asked.

“What makes you think I did?”