On the third night, Doran Skeff didn't go home.
Rhosyn had his route down to the minute by then. Out of the manifest office at the tenth hour, left along the canal wall, across the lower bridge, four streets through the workers' blocks, in through a green door with a bent number plate. Eleven years of the same walk, and even frightened he hadn't varied it once.
That night he came out of the side entrance instead, the one the cleaners used, and turned right.
She lost forty seconds getting off a roofline she'd chosen for a man going left. By the time she had him again he was three streets into the wrong part of the ring, moving quickly for a man his size, and she stayed further back than she wanted to because the streets were empty enough that her footsteps would have been a second set.
