[Jean listens to Harry as he portions himself out a serving, wincing at how good it smells. Who was the person that has been reduced to little more than stew meat? Harry wouldn't kill a good person, not for something as base as food. But if he had another excuse—well, it would certainly be the only ethical thing to do with the remains. Practical. Jean likes being practical.

He tries to shake the thoughts of Harry killing someone out of his head. It's been a constant tape playing and looping back in his mind this week, and while he knows that it wasn't Harry, it was something close enough to make him recoil at his threat. Because that's what Jean assumes it is: a threat, a typical macho warning to anyone who tries to cross his lines. It's very Harry. What's not Harry is the rest of it—none of it is backed up by rigorous denial or even much anger at the idea. It's strange.]

I'm not giving you shit, man. Get over yourself.

[Jean blows on the bowl of soup to cool it, letting it warm his clawed hands. White hair peeks out from his shirtsleeve.]

It's just funny, is all. Harrier Du Bois, the home cook. Playing house with another cop. They wouldn't recognize you.

[Jean doesn't recognize him.]