scare him,” says another.

“To make sure he would keep his word and help us bring trans porn into China. It’s our calling in life. Our Don Quixote windmill.”

“We should never have doubted him,” says the one with the new chin.

“He must have told you everything,” says the one who admitted they were here looking for him. “You must already know about our plans.”

“What happened to him?” asks the first one. “Was it the Chinese that killed him? The Russians? Was it really an accident? We are all so confused. We don’t know what to do now or where to go. Should we stay here? Should we go back to Michigan?”

“I’m never going back to Michigan,” says the short man I’ve pegged as their leader. “My wife is in Michigan.”

They all laugh again.

Then there is a long moment of silence. I don’t know quite what to say. It is blisteringly apparent to both Pez and me that these men had nothing to do with Henley’s death. First of all, none of them are even close to the right body type to be the elusive Game Master. Second, their sweaty and overpowering American good nature is almost palpable. These are not conniving killers; these are dopy bruisers.

“He really was very beautiful,” I say. They all hold their breath, wondering why I have chosen to hunt them down and invade their meeting and what other words of wisdom I might impart. “He was also a total asshole. Drinks on me, fellas. Let’s celebrate him properly. Let’s celebrate all the good that he did and all the lies that he told.”

The five huge men cheer so loudly that my heart rattles the bars of its cage.

They all begin singing the chorus to “Don’t Look Back in Anger,” out of key.

“Wait, wait,” says the leader. “Let me find the song in the booklet.”

“No, let her pick the next one!” says New Chin, pulling me in for another hug.

23

Pez and I end up staying out all night drinking with these affable brutes, singing every song we know and telling stories about Henley.

The sly and cunning hostess gives away the room I generously bribed her for to a different band of surly and emaciated Russians with gold teeth and Caesar cuts. You just can’t trust anyone in the service industry anymore.

Hanging out with these Michiganders is therapeutic. I learn all about Henley’s adventures in China, about how he has made friends and enemies in the vast expat community there.

More information only confirms that none of these men had anything to do with Henley’s death. They are fun-loving, good-natured doofuses. The only reason they would have come into contact with someone like Henley would be because they were all out of place and feeling homesick at the same time in the same place.

All of these burly men are very passionate about getting gay and transgender porn into China. Eventually we get so drunk that we start brainstorming ways to make this happen using various NGOs and printers that Nylo uses to make games in China. I am just as seduced by them as Henley must have been.

Eventually, Pez excuses himself, saying that he has to sleep if he means to keep investigating in the morning.

I can see why Henley and these men became friends. I can see why he wanted to help them out, even if he oversold his ability to do so. I do wonder if there might have been somebody else involved in all of their plans. Somebody who remains hidden. An agent of China determined to prevent their smuggling operation, perhaps, but unwilling to commit any crimes in China, thereby preventing an international incident. Waiting until Henley came here to make a move against him.

I just don’t know enough yet. I finally excuse myself, deflecting their drunken pleas to stay, and get a car back to the office. I take another shower and eat some old pastries that were left in the break room. An entire roast chicken has been delivered as a death gift, along with some fingerling potatoes. I open the plastic clamshell and pull the meat right off the bone, alternating with bites of cold potatoes spiced with rosemary and garlic.

I pass out fully dressed in my bed. I only manage to sleep for two hours or so before Peter gently wakes me up, a concerned look on his face.

“Just let me sleep,” I moan. “I’m sick.”

“It’s the police,” he says. “They are in your office waiting. They say they have some questions for you.”

“Fine,” I say, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “Tell them I’m coming.”

I rouse myself and grab a carbonated iced coffee from my refrigerator and drink it down. Then I crack open another one to sip more casually.

I wash my face and put on some makeup. Maybe these police will finally have a lead.

My office turns out to be extremely crowded. Two giant bald men with earphones are standing by the door, hands behind their backs. They must be my new security detail. They don’t look at me when I enter the room. I can see the bulges in their suit jackets where they’re concealing guns or Tasers or cans of Raid or whatever.

Detectives Jay and Rutledge sit across from my desk, lounging in chairs with their legs crossed, sipping giant cups of coffee and eating glistening, gooey Danishes that Peter must have brought them.

I sit down behind my desk. My brain feels soggy and soft. I turn the air conditioning up as high as it will go, hoping that maybe the extreme cold will wake me up.

“Officers,” I say. “Did you catch the person who killed my brother and who is trying to kill all the rest of us?”

Rutledge and Jay exchange a look. “We’re working on it,” says Jay. “It’s all part of a process.”

“What does that mean?” I ask. “Do you have any leads or not? Were you able to trace these game phones or figure out who this Game Master might be?”

“We are

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