I t wasn’t Conner. Not Conner. It was the peripheral. Lev’s brother’s. Pavel. Wilf called it Pavel. Called it the dancing master. And Conner had meant to do that. Had tried to kill this asshole with it. Was okay. Was back in his white bed, beside Burton, totally pissed that he’d missed. Even so, fifty-five floors, straight down, he’d come that close. No way he’d been aiming for the robot girl.