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“But not all of them are so great, right?” said Jack, getting them back on track. “You said one was terrifying?”

“Oh, Ms. Summers.” Brenda nodded. “You’d never see her bringing us sweets.”

“What’s so scary about her?”

Brenda shook her head. “The woman is a good thirty years my junior and I can’t have a single conversation with her without it feeling like I’m about to be sent to the principal’s office.”

That certainly tracked for the woman in the archives, Jack thought.

“And she’s ruthless,” Brenda added. “I mean ruthless. Had the old Accidental department manager fired for asking too many questions about the company. That man had been here longer than me and all he wanted was a better understanding of how things actually work around here. Well, I’ve certainly learned to keep my mouth shut since, I’ll tell you what.”

And there it was, as close to a confirmation as Jack could hope to get. Why would someone go so far as to fire someone for asking questions unless the answers were something they wanted to keep for themselves? Jack was never supposed to know about the Master List, but he did, and he was after it. For someone else who thought like him, that knowledge would be worth almost as much as the list itself, and they’d do what they had to in order to keep others from finding out.

28

Since his most recent jail stint, Eli had taken a job in construction. He’d never struck Jack as the type for manual labor—when Eli and Greer’s parents had taken Jack along to their family cottage one summer, Eli wouldn’t even join the sandcastle building competition because he hated the feeling of grit under his nails. But it was a job that didn’t mind a criminal record, it kept a roof over his head, and Eli had the kind of determined disposition that meant he could excel at even the things he hated.

Digging into Greta Summers had proved to be just that. Jack found Eli on his laptop at Margaret’s kitchen island that night. Eli was still wearing a high-vis vest and a coat of cement dust from the condos he and his team had been steadily accosting the skyline with earlier in the day. Jack had definitely locked the door before leaving and had left the extra key under one of the many flowerpots out front without telling anyone, so there was a very good chance Eli had picked the lock to get in.

“The woman’s a ghost,” Eli said as soon as Jack walked in. He shot a look in the general direction of where Jack had indicated Dale was lounging on the couch. “Figuratively.”

“Not finding anything?” Jack asked, sinking down onto the stool beside Eli.

“The only Greta Summers in the area with a web presence is this chick,” said Eli, swinging his computer around to face Jack. On the screen was the image of a woman in her mid-to-late forties, her coarse curls a gradient of gray. “But you said your archivist is blond and scary.”

“I didn’t say ‘scary,’ ” Jack corrected. “I said ‘terrifying.’ So no, that’s not her.”

“You sure there aren’t two Gretas?” Dale asked.

Jack tried to keep the condescension from his tone. “What’s more likely, bud? That there’s two terrifying women named Greta who just happen to be working for the same branch of S.C.Y.T.H.E., or that there’s only the one?”

“Right, no, of course,” Dale said quickly. “Just the one, probably. That makes sense.”

“Anyway.” Jack swung back around on his seat to face Eli. “Keep at it. Meanwhile one of the bigwigs popped into the office today. Ian Grant. He was wearing chinos, so I’m thinking we look into him next. Are the others coming?”

“Greer’s at soccer with her girls, but Carter should be here soon.”

Jack tucked his disappointment behind a noncommittal smile. The last little while, he’d mostly been allowed to forget that Greer had a whole life he wasn’t a part of. At moments, he’d even forgotten anything had changed at all since their feral years growing up together. Still, he took a little solace in hearing that if she had to be away, it was because her kids were getting to be kids, especially with one so sick.

“Wait, you said Ian Grant?” Carter asked over a slice of pizza an hour later. The Great Anchovies on Pizza debate of 2006 had nearly rendered the You Agains irreparably at odds. Harsh words were spoken on all sides, but in the end a truce had been declared and all further pizza orders included one small, controversially topped pie for those rogue enough to partake.

“Why does that name sound familiar?” Dale asked from the couch. He’d been firmly against the anchovies-topped pizza because Jack was, but any pizza was tempting to someone who could no longer eat, and so he’d opted to keep his distance.

Eli hadn’t closed his laptop despite the sagging triangle of grease in his hand. He was still hyper-fixated on tracking down Greta Summers, but enough of him remained present to prompt a quick shift in focus, and a few keystrokes later Eli was fully back in Margaret’s kitchen. “Yo, we went to school with this guy. He was in biology with me and Dale junior year.”

“Oh shit, yeah,” Dale chimed in. “The kid with the really rich parents, right? Rich Ian?”

“Oh god, Rich Ian?” Carter said, echoing Dale without realizing it. “His parents owned a casino, didn’t they? The one downtown. I think it’s an art gallery now.”

“Rich Ian, the guy who was in love with Greer?” Jack sputtered before he could stop himself.

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t look like Rich Ian is all that rich anymore,” Eli said, his eyes flicking quickly over something on his computer screen. “Apparently his old man went to prison for embezzlement a year or two after grad and most of the casino’s earnings went to lawyer fees.”

“So Rich Ian is now Financially Unstable Ian?” said Jack, trying and failing to paint over the shades of glee tinting his voice.

“All I’m finding is that he bounced around jobs for most of his twenties. Doesn’t look like he could find much with his dad’s reputation hanging over him. Then LinkedIn has him in ‘transportation’ from 2019 to about three years ago, when he was promoted to branch director.”

Jack lifted his gaze to the chandelier above him. To the tastefully appointed yet obviously luxurious furniture that filled the clean, cavernous space surrounding the You Agains as they sat in the adjoining living room–dining room of Margaret’s home. Based on the paychecks he’d collected in his time at S.C.Y.T.H.E., all signs pointed to a financially beneficial marriage on Margaret’s part rather than the cushy job that being a Collections Agent simply wasn’t. Jack had his doubts that even a director at the company would be living the high life. But Rich Ian had grown up accustomed to being, well, rich. None of the jobs he’d taken over the years would earn him enough to get that nickname back again. So, Jack thought, pressing the words to the roof of his mouth in order to taste them, there was every reason for him to steal it back. He flicked an anchovy off his slice of pizza, narrowly missing his target of Carter’s plate.