His day off felt like the most demanding work of his life. Foster didn't rest. He moved with a grim, focused energy, a soldier preparing for a mission behind enemy lines.
The political path was his only viable option. He wanted nothing to do with its echoing coincidences. He would target a different branch of that aspect in the city's machinery.
He carried a small bag into a private restroom across from the city's central administrative district, a place that charged five pennies for ten minutes of luxury—privacy, running water, and a lock on the door.
He didn't want Ortego's questions, the boy's sharp eyes noting the sudden change, the silly, extravagant transformation.
Inside the sterile cubicle, he shed Foster Ambrose like a skin.
He dyed his brownish-black, perpetually unkempt hair a stark, severe black. He worked gel through it, combing it back into a slick, severe style that revealed a sharper hairline and a more pronounced brow.
He put on the clothes: a crisp white sleeve, a black vest, ironed black pants, a pair of sleek, silver-rimmed glasses that didn't correct his vision but changed the shape of his face, black stockings, and perfectly polished black shoes.
He looked at his reflection in the small, steel-framed mirror.
A stranger stared back. Refined and cold. Someone from the financial district or a junior partner in a law firm.
The wary softness of Foster Ambrose was gone, replaced by a cold and calculated sharpness. It was an exaggerated move, he knew. A touch of theatrical paranoia.
But in a city where everything was connected, where a locksmith's key could unlock a conspiracy and a housekeeper held silent histories, paranoia felt like the only rational course of action.
This was for safety. His and Ortego's.
He boarded a taxi, giving the address for the Urban Infrastructure Analysis Forum (UIAF).
The new persona, he decided, would need a name. And the only other name he had, the one that belonged to the ghost in his mind, was the one he would use.
Andrew Garfield.
It was a risk, a tiny link connecting his two lives, but it was his link. No one in this world knew it.
The UIAF office was a study in muted ambition. It was all glass, chrome, and potted plants, a place designed to project efficiency and modernity. His new appearance fit right in.
The interview was with a brisk, efficient woman named Ms. Thorne.
"Your credentials are... unconventional, Mr. Garfield."
She said, looking over the fake ID Neil had crafted. It placed him as a moderately successful independent consultant from a reputable upperclass district.
"Polic—I mean, understanding public infrastructure from a security and livability standpoint provides a unique perspective."
Andrew said, his voice lower, more measured than Foster's.
"I'm not an engineer. I understand how people interact with the spaces they inhabit. Where they feel safe. Where the systems fail them."
He spoke about "urban flow," "demographic integration," and "the synergy between old districts and new development," weaving a tapestry of words around the hard, practical knowledge he'd gained from police work and Foster's own innate understanding of the city's bones.
Ms. Thorne was impressed.
"We often get calls from... influential individuals. People who need discrete, knowledgeable assistance navigating the city's housing market, from finding a suitable residence to overseeing custom builds in historically zoned areas."
She continued. "It requires tactfulness, discretion, and an understanding of both old money and new. Your profile seems an excellent fit."
He was hired as a Private Housing Consultant. The pay was a retainer plus commissions, a sum that made his police salary look like pocket change.
It was a foot in the door of the city's powerful, a way to listen to their conversations and, more importantly, to fill his empty wallet.
He left the UIAF building, but Andrew Garfield did not go straight home.
He instructed the taxi driver to take a looping, nonsensical route, his eyes glued to the side mirror, watching for any vehicle that might be following the new, slick-haired man he had become.
Satisfied, he returned to the private restroom.
The transformation reversed. He got the gel washed out, the clothes swapped back, and the glasses tucked away.
Foster Ambrose, looking tired and slightly rumpled, emerged onto the street and walked the rest of the way home.
—
The house was quiet. He crept up to Ortego's room. The boy was asleep, a textbook on hydraulic engineering open on his chest.
Foster carefully moved it, tucked the blanket around his brother's shoulders, and, on a impulse he didn't fully understand, leaned down and hugged the sleeping form.
It was voluntary. An acceptance. He was Foster Ambrose now. This boy was his responsibility. If not for his own sake, then for the sake of the man whose life and brother he had inherited.
In his own room, the last of his energy spent, he dumped the bag of his disguise onto the floor.
The pretense, the fear, the calculation, it all fell away with his clothes.
He collapsed onto the bed, still in his day-worn trousers, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, the weight of his two lives pressing him down into the darkness.