“That’s not what you told us at the scene,” says Pujols sharply.

“I said I’ll tell you everything I knew,” says Glory. She’s pale and dull. “I am.”

“Then let’s start with their names.”

“Never knew them,” Glory repeats. “Angel, Faith, Charity and Clementine? Google those, dipshit.”

“Relax, Glory,” says McNamara. “Officer Pujols is a little overeager. You want a cigarette?” Her eyes are a warm hazel.

“If I can put it out in your face,” says Glory, in the same tone. “Just ask me the questions, you fucking sow.” She keeps her hands in her lap, one in the other.