Evelyn knew the word in all its meanings — legal, biological, colloquial. Department paperwork used the cumbersome phrase "member of a hereditary line."

No one spoke like that in real life.

There was a monster sitting in front of him.

Impeccably dressed, running an agency in central New Vice, and conducting a job interview with a human as though there were nothing unusual about it.

To be fair, in this city, there wasn't.

What surprised Evelyn was something else entirely.

He had never before seen a creature who matched everything he found attractive with such terrifying accuracy — including preferences he had not known he possessed until approximately thirty seconds ago.

"Good," Mr. Johnson said. "Then you should probably come into the room."

Evelyn realized he was still standing in the doorway.

He stepped forward too quickly, nearly clipped his shoulder on the frame, and instantly felt heat climb from his collar to his cheeks.

"Sorry."

"For what?"

"I was standing in the doorway."

"I noticed."

There was no mockery in Mr. Johnson's voice, but the corner of his broad mouth creased almost imperceptibly.

Evelyn made himself walk to the chair in front of the desk, sit down, and place his folder on his knees, even though Mr. Johnson already had a copy of his resume.

"Evelyn Gilmore," he read. "Former junior analyst, Artifact Certification and Safety Division, Blackwell Department."

"Yes."

Mr. Johnson skimmed the next few lines.

"Worcester. Good education."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment. So far, merely an observation."

"I understand."

"Why do you want to work as a private investigator's assistant?"

Evelyn had prepared for this question.

He had written out an answer, rehearsed it several times at home, and carefully removed anything that might sound excessively personal. He was supposed to talk about applying his specialist knowledge in practice, his professional interest in field investigations, broadening his experience, helping humans and monsters alike.

Instead, his gaze drifted back to Mr. Johnson's mouth.

While reading, the man slowly ran the tip of a long tongue along the inside of one sharp tooth.

It appeared for less than a second.

That was enough to erase Evelyn's carefully prepared answer in its entirety.

When the silence continued, Mr. Johnson looked up.

"Mr. Gilmore?"

"Y-yes?"

"I asked why you want to work with a private investigator."

"I heard you."

"Promising."

This time the amusement could no longer be mistaken for anything accidental.

Evelyn straightened, tightened his grip on the folder, and forced himself to look exclusively at a point somewhere around Mr. Johnson's forehead.

He had defended a dissertation before a panel of seven people without stumbling once.

Why, then, could he not answer a few simple questions from one single monster?

God. He could not possibly look like a complete idiot.

Get a grip.

When he spoke again, his voice was steady.

"I want to work anomalous investigations beyond the paperwork stage. At the Department, we analyzed artifacts and consequences after a case had already passed through the police, laboratories, and legal divisions. By then, most of the important decisions had been made by other people. I want to see the whole picture."

"Why?"

"Because without it, an expert opinion often becomes a convenient way to justify a conclusion someone has already chosen."

Mr. Johnson did not frown or shift in his chair. He simply looked at Evelyn more closely.

For the first time since entering the room, Evelyn felt that he was genuinely being listened to.

"Did you often disagree with those chosen conclusions?"

"Often enough."

"Is that why you left?"

"Officially, my position was eliminated."

"And unofficially?"

Evelyn let the silence sit for a moment.

"Management decided I was asking questions outside the scope of my authority."

"Were you?"

"Yes."

"Were they outside it?"

"Also yes."

Sharp teeth appeared again in Mr. Johnson's smile.

"At least you're honest."

Evelyn wasn't entirely sure he deserved that conclusion, but he had no intention of retreating now.

Though that smile was doing something to him that felt frankly prohibited.

Mr. Johnson looked back down at the resume.

"You left the Department two years ago."

Evelyn's fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the folder.

Here it came.

"Yes."

"And since then?"

"The main contracts are listed on my resume."

"I saw."

Mr. Johnson turned the page.

"Three months at a private laboratory. Two expert reports for a law firm. A registry audit for an insurance company. Several independent consultations."

He looked up again.

"That's not two years' worth of work, Mr. Gilmore."

Evelyn held his gaze.

"It isn't all of it."

"Then why isn't the rest listed?"

"Some clients preferred confidentiality."

"Convenient."

"True, nevertheless."

Mr. Johnson was silent for a moment.

His expression remained composed, but Evelyn could now feel the man's attention with uncomfortable clarity. He was not merely evaluating education and experience. He was taking Evelyn apart into reactions, pauses, movements of the eyes.

He had probably already noticed that Evelyn answered questions about the Department more freely than questions about the last two years.

"What exactly were you doing?" Mr. Johnson asked.

"Tracing artifact provenance. Reviewing technical assessments. Looking for inconsistencies in registries. Occasionally helping attorneys make sense of cases where the official expert work had been careless."

"Occasionally?"

"That kind of work doesn't always fill an entire day."

"And what did you do with the rest of your time?"

The question carried no pressure.

That made lying more difficult.

Evelyn looked at the dark surface of the desk. At the neatly stacked files. At Mr. Johnson's hand resting beside his resume.

He could not say, I was looking for the man who killed my father.

Not at a first interview.

Not to someone he hadn't even known existed two weeks earlier.

"Family matters," Evelyn said at last.

"For two years?"

"They turned out to be more complicated than expected."

Mr. Johnson narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Large family?"

"Not particularly."

"Then unusually complicated matters."

Irritation rose in Evelyn — not really at Mr. Johnson, but at himself for allowing the conversation to be maneuvered this far.

"My father died three years ago," he said. "He left behind a considerable amount of paperwork and several unresolved questions."

This time Mr. Johnson did not smile.

"My condolences."

There was none of that special softness people used to disguise curiosity. Only a brief acknowledgment of fact.

"Thank you."

"Was his death connected to your work at the Department?"

Evelyn looked up too quickly.

The movement was enough.

Mr. Johnson leaned back almost imperceptibly.

"I see."