Crimson for blood? No, Amy thought, the whole outfit was about blood, the impulse to look good itself was about blood. Blood guilt. She had seen it in the doctors who had more money than they thought they deserved, more power over others than they knew they should have. I’m a good boy, you can tell by looking at me. She had compared Chino to them and, she remembered now, Gregory, too, when he had made his entrance into the sterile room where she had waited with her kidnappers. Chino and Gregory, the same geek? The answer was simpler than that, as basic as her nursing school psychology reference book. They had the same personality disorder. The reinforced and reflected each other. They were closer than brothers. They made each other stronger. After years together, they were as close as twins. As Gregory got up on a bar stool, Amy brought up a champagne flute.

“Well. That’s an improvement,” he said. “Probably too late to do you any good, but better to have the next several hours pass peaceably. I see you’ve eaten the rest of the chips. You must have been hungry.”

“Starving.”

“You’re still quite fixated on your husband, in spite of your transparent attempt to fool Chino. Transparent to me, at least. I don’t think you’re fooling him either. Do you want to know if your husband is still alive? None of the pieces of the bodies that we’ve found since his grenade went off seem to be him.” He paused, smiling. “Your expression is priceless.”

She was thinking the same thing about him. At this moment it was clear he couldn’t wait to get his hands on her. She didn’t know if she could let herself believe what he was saying about Sam, as much as she wanted to believe it. Hand grenade? She’d heard an explosion. They had sealed the house — she had heard Chino say that. Was that another charade designed to unravel her, or were they really proceeding on the assumption that Sam remained alive? “Where is Chino?”

“Giving us another demonstration of his improvisational genius.”

“We’ll see.”

“Right now your husband is under almost constant surveillance. The original object of the exercise was to get the two of you here.” He toasted her. “Your husband is doing everything he can to join you. And so he shall — on our terms.”

Time to take a chance. “Which is downstairs, by six o’clock.”

His eyes narrowed momentarily. “Actually, a little before. We’re not going to die for your sins. You are.”

She felt a sudden, sharp stab of terror. “Are you having big fun?”

Chino entered, flashing a big smile. “What big fun is that?”

Amy rattled her chain. “Unplug me from this, you —”