Slowly, the people in the room came to a consensus and there were small nods of agreement all around. Arms folded defiantly over her chest, the teenager continued to seethe, but she didn’t fight back. My appeal made sense to them, or they were willing to pretend it did. I didn’t tell them they had every right to use their phones if they wanted to. Under the circumstances, I felt I’d be forgiven for taking a few liberties with the law.

“While I’m speaking with you individually,” I said without delay, because this was the tough part, the part they’d hate, “I’d like you to stay right here in this room. Wellington will be with you until the state police troopers arrive. Until then, stay put.”

There was a beat of silence, and then everyone spoke at once. I caught snippets of what they were saying, all of it standard-issue outrage. I was accused of treating them like naughty children sent to their rooms. The elegant parlor was likened to a jail cell. Somebody threatened to contact a reporter. Someone else—the man in glasses, the teenager’s dad—pointed out he was a lawyer and prepared to act.

I didn’t respond, didn’t say one damn word, and eventually the clamor died down. Only when they were all red-faced and deflated did I go on. “I’m not saying you can’t get up to use the bathroom. I’m not cuffing you to a chair. We’re here to find out what happened, and this is how we do it. But I want to remind you of something, too. While I haven’t seen any evidence of an intruder—no broken windows or busted locks—we can’t rule that possibility out. You need to understand whoever did this might still be here, on the island. Your comfort and convenience is not my priority. My priority is to keep the rest of you safe.”

The wind blew harder and the house gave a shudder. Against the windows the rain mimicked the sound of a million pebbles falling from a great height. A log split open with a crack like a gunshot, and this time I felt everyone tense. Abella drew in a ragged breath. Bebe Sinclair’s jaw hung slack. Her skin reminded me of rubber; there was a shiny, overplumped quality to it that smacked of Botox. A new smell filled the air, mingling with the wood smoke. Fear. “Now,” I said. “Who are we missing?”

It was the man next to Abella who answered. “Flynn,” he said. “We’re missing Flynn.”

“Flynn Sinclair. Jasper’s older brother,” Tim told me, blushing hard as he stared down at his boots. “Thanks, Ned,” he said, then, back to me, “Sorry. I should have mentioned that.”

We were new to it still, to each other, but Tim and I were slowly learning to play the game, and the seamlessness of our exchange thrilled me. Tim, as it turned out, could act. He wore an abashed expression that wasn’t lost on the others. Bebe watched with interest and the tiniest of smirks, while Camilla looked slightly offended by Tim’s apparent misstep. Her eyes crinkled in a way that implied disappointment. Unlike Bebe, Camilla took us for consummate professionals. Tim had let her down.