If you’ve ever seen a dead body, you know how they change the air: that huge silence, the absence as strong as a black hole, time stopped and molecules frozen around the still thing that’s learned the secret, the one he can never tell. Most dead people are the only thing in the room. Murder victims are different; they don’t come alone. The silence rises up to a deafening shout and the air is streaked and hand-printed, the body smokes with the brand of that other person grabbing you just as hard: the killer.