Hodges closes his eyes. The pain is very bad, and he would give everything he owns to get away from it, and from what is going to happen next. He would give anything to just sleep, and sleep, and sleep. But he opens them again and forces himself to look at Brady, because you play the game to the end. That’s how it works; play to the end.

“I have a lot of stuff to do in the next forty-eight or seventy-two hours, Detective Hodges, but I’m going to put it on hold in order to deal with you. Does that make you feel special? It should. Because I owe you so much for fucking me over.”

“You need to remember that you came to me,” Hodges says. “You were the one who started the ball rolling, with that stupid, bragging letter. Not me. You.”

Babineau’s face—the craggy face of an older character actor—darkens. “I suppose you might have a point, but look who’s on top now. Look who wins, Detective Hodges.”

“If you call getting a bunch of stupid, confused kids to commit suicide winning, I guess you’re the winner. Me, I think doing that is about as challenging as striking out the pitcher.”

“It’s control! I assert control! You tried to stop me and you couldn’t! You absolutely couldn’t! And neither could she!” He kicks Holly in the side. Her body rolls a boneless half a turn toward the fireplace, then rolls back again. Her face is ashen, her closed eyes sunk deep in their sockets. “She actually made me better! Better than I ever was!”

“Then for Christ’s sake, stop kicking her!” Hodges shouts.

Brady’s anger and excitement have caused Babineau’s face to flush. His hands are tight on the assault rifle. He takes a deep, steadying breath, then another. And smiles.

“Got a soft spot for Ms. Gibney, do you?” He kicks her again, this time in the hip. “Are you fucking her? Is that it? She’s not much in the looks department, but I guess a guy your age has to take what he can get. You know what we used to say? Put a flag over her face and fuck her for Old Glory.”

He kicks Holly again, and bares his teeth at Hodges in what he may think is a smile.

“You used to ask me if I was fucking my mother, remember? All those visits you made to my room, asking if I was fucking the only person who ever cared a damn for me. Talking about how hot she looked, and was she a hoochie mama. Asking if I was faking. Telling me how much you hoped I was suffering. And I just had to sit there and take it.”