Free The Shell Collector by Hugh Howey Page A

says.
    I don’t say anything. I just study myself in the mirror. The room spins around me.
    “Look, it’s okay,” he says. “Just come to my office when you get back in town. Bring the wire. That might be enough to get a search warrant. And you may have spooked him into doing something dumb. We’ll keep an eye on him.”
    “I’m sorry,” I say.
    “It’s okay. He’s a crafty guy. If he wasn’t, we’d have nailed him by now. Get some sleep. We’ll regroup when you get home.”
    “Okay,” I say. I appreciate him trying to make me feel better, but it doesn’t dent how idiotic I feel. “See you soon.”
    “G’night, Maya.”
    The phone clicks.
    I check the time and debate calling my sister, who loves hearing about my fuck-ups and is great at making me feel better about them. I decide it’s too late. I run a bath instead, letting the water run hot enough to throw up steam. I’m about to step in when my phone rings. I answer immediately, expecting Agent Cooper or possibly even Henry.
    “Hello, Maya?”
    Ness. It’s crazy that I recognize his voice. “How did you get this number?” I ask.
    “The internet. You’re listed, you know.”
    I wiggle out of my pants and underwear and test the water. Scalding hot. I get in anyway.
    “What do you want?” I ask. “It’s late.”
    “I was calling to see if you were coming back tomorrow. To look at that journal some more. I need to let the outer gate know.”
    “I don’t think so,” I say. “I think I got what I need.”
    “Okay.”
    There’s a long silence. Like he wants to say something else but doesn’t know how. I don’t allow myself to care or be curious. I just slip down until my shoulders are submerged, only my head and the hand holding the phone out of the water. I can feel the tension melt out of my muscles and joints in the hot water.
    “I was thinking,” Ness says.
    I wait.
    “You used to do those shelling columns. And you’ve obviously got a story you’re working on about me. And you’re curious about those shells you brought over—”
    “The ones you destroyed,” I say.
    “So I was thinking maybe I could show you where they came from. Give you a shelling angle to your story. I think … I think I might be ready to share some of my secrets. My shelling secrets.”
    I start to ask if by “secrets” he means how he forged the shells, but something even worse pops out of my mouth. “Did you kill Dimitri Arlov?” I ask.
    “What—? No. Are you serious? Absolutely not. He was … a very good friend. Absolutely not.”
    “Did you know that he stole from you?”
    “No. I didn’t. And … you wouldn’t understand.”
    “Try me,” I say.
    “Okay,” Ness says. “But you’ll have to trust me. Come spend a week with me, and I’ll take you shelling. I’ll show you … where they came from. I think I want people to know.”
    “You’ll show me where those lace murexes came from?” I ask, making sure I understand.
    Ness hesitates. I wonder what he means by letting people know, what he means about sharing his secrets. Does he know the feds are closing in on him? Does he think he can save himself with a confession or by appealing to the press or to the public? Is he that desperate?
    “Yes,” he finally says. “I’ll show you where the laces came from. Give me a week of your time, and I’ll give you the story of a lifetime. I promise.”

Part II:
Drowning

12
    “You’re doing what? ” Henry asks me.
    “I’m going back up there,” I tell him. “For one week. And you’re sitting on my cable.”
    Henry gets off my desk, and I unplug the charger for my laptop, wrap it up, and shove it in my bag.
    “What do you mean, you’re going back up there? We’ve got to get your second piece out next week. We’re running part one again on Sunday. Everyone wants to know when you’re getting to Ness.”
    “Sounds like she already got to him,” Dawn says from her desk.
    I flip her the bird.
    “This is bigger than that piece,” I