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BCA agent Harry Steinbeck lived his life by three principles: Insight adheres to structure. Structure provides safety. Safety requires you let no one in.
When you went home, you came back to the person you used to be, for better or worse.
It all reminded Harry that he was the reason his sister had never been found.
“With the veri noita defeated, the disloyal villagers next turned to the original seven families, the veri noita’s truest followers.” He began breathing heavily. “They murdered all their children, every last one of them, in an event that came to be known as the reaping.”
It didn’t matter how many killers Harry had seen, he was always surprised by how unremarkable they were. They were simply men, often smaller than average, frequently with a low IQ, and with either extremely poor or alarmingly effective social skills.
“The dead don’t want us to mourn, Harry.” She squeezed his hands again. “They don’t want for anything; they’re with God.”
“Don’t you see?” she continued. “We shouldn’t do anything for the dead. We have only one job on this earth, and it has to do with the living: we must love those put in our path as hard as we can, every day.”
He inhaled deeply. There was no air so fresh in all the world as the wind straight off Lake Superior.
Conviction. He could run back to Saint Paul. He wanted to, desperately. But he would not.
“It’s free to be mean, but it pays to be kind,” she said. Then she smiled.
Harry thought she must know how beautiful she looked in that moment.
A good agent uses every tool in their tool kit.
Harry recognized the signs of an extreme manic state. Had the genetic mutation that had given Pekka strength also given him sociopathy? The ability to hide his true self from the world, to manipulate others?
