“I have a question, too,” Miles said from his chair. “Mine’s for Bebe. What drew you to our good friend Ned? At first I thought this was some kind of charity project—fuck a dirt-poor African kid, feel like a million bucks—but Ned’s bank account is a lot bigger than yours these days, so now I’m not so sure.”

“Whoa,” I said, leaning into the balls of my feet. Across the room Tim did the same, preparing to dive into the brawl that was surely seconds from breaking out. Ned’s face was creased with fury, teeth clamped and nostrils wide, but he didn’t move or utter a single word.

In more than a decade working with the police in the city, I’d heard so much offensive language I could write a dictionary of abominable slang—but Miles’s racist remark was shocking in its cruelty. I couldn’t fathom why Ned didn’t have him up against the wall. His restraint revealed a lot. Ned was accustomed to this kind of treatment from Flynn, who used and abused him every chance he got, but I didn’t get the sense that Ned was a pushover either. Then I remembered there was a child in the room around the age of Ned’s youngest sibling.

“My turn,” I said, capitalizing on the chaos. For the moment our suspects’ attentions were diverted, but I knew that wouldn’t last. “Who killed Abella? Come on, guys, think of it as family bonding. Free therapy.”

Bebe’s face was violet with rage. “All of you can go to hell.”

“Already there,” said Flynn.

“Enough. Goddammit,” said Tim, “that’s enough. Listen up, all of you. New rules. From now on, nobody leaves our sight.”

Despite facing the prospect of being under house arrest all over again, the group emitted no further signs of dissonance. Score another win for Tim’s social skills. He was still the good cop in their eyes. They trusted him, and my nonsensical behavior had probably contributed to that. It was the one and only perk to acting batshit crazy on a case.

There was another reason our suspects didn’t object. Nobody was accustomed to being in physical danger on a dark and stormy night. Sitting in a room with a single exit and two BCI investigators at the door was the only safe place on Tern Island, and the best scenario they were going to get.

“In a minute,” Tim said, “Merchant here is going to make a call to the sheriff.”

At that, Bebe let out a snort. Sheriffs were another trapping of the small-town life she looked down her nose at from her penthouse in Manhattan.

“The sheriff,” Tim went on, “will immediately dispatch a team of officers to transport you to the mainland. You’ll be questioned at the police station in Alexandria Bay, at which point you’ll be free to contact an attorney.” Tim glanced at Miles. The only attorney in the room seemed to have no problem with Tim’s instructions.

The relief I felt at hearing them was vast and cool as a lake. Since the moment we found Abella Beaudry’s body I’d been racking my brain over what to do. Our six remaining suspects—I’d long since ruled out brittle and sickly Camilla—were unpredictable and cruel, but they were also human. At some point they’d need to eat again, or use the bathroom. Even burdened by the memory of what happened the last time they went to bed, they’d eventually need to sleep.