“Which one of you shot Ben?” Stanley asked, ripping the tape away from each of their mouths. He bent down over Grandma Rose. “Was it you? You seem like the feisty type.”

“Get away from me,” she said.

Stanley click-click-clicked a pair of pliers before her eyes. “Ben was nice, unlike me. He probably would have let you live. But I suppose that’s why he failed. He was too nice, and in a dog-eat-dog world, only the wicked survive.”

“I thought the Order of the Dragon was supposed to be a holy order,” Joe said.

“We are!” Stanley said, moving over to Joe. “Haven’t you heard of the teachings of Rasputin?”

“Rasputin was the antichrist,” Joe said.

“No, Rasputin was a Russian starets, a healer and a prophet,” Stanley said. “He understood that our depravity was our greatest connection with God, and that if we embraced it, we could have communion with him. The greater the crime, the greater the connection.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Joe said. “And so was your friend Ben. I’m glad I sent him to hell.”

“I’m tired of listening to you,” Stanley said. He pried open Joe’s mouth and stuck in the pliers. He wriggled the tool as Joe growled, then finally yanked free the tooth he desired. “You’ll be first!” Stanley said, holding his tooth up in the air like a jewel.

“The Orphans have always made good martyrs,” Joe said, spitting blood. “Bring on your worst.”

Stanley took a long, curved hook out of his bag and stuck it in the duct tape between Joe’s feet. With two hands, he dragged him across the slick wooden floor, stopping by Ben’s lifeless form. “I’m going to make it my worst for his sake,” Stanley said. “Brothers of the Order look out for one another, even after death.” He pulled Joe into the kitchen.

Grandma Rose felt like she was stuck in a downward-spiraling nightmare. And the worst part was, her grandson was along for the ride.

“What’s going to happen to Joe?” They were the first words Charlie had spoken since he’d been bound.

“I don’t know, Charlie,” she answered, a half lie.

“I like him.”

“He shot me in the leg, I’ll remind you.”

“He told me he only did it to make me drop the gun. It was my fault.”

Grandma Rose took a deep breath. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“It’s all my fault! Why do you keep telling me it’s not? Joe could have stopped him if it wasn’t for me.”

The sound of a saw or a drill—some kind of mechanical terror— came from the kitchen. The barely audible sound of someone trying not to scream vibrated beneath the noise.

“Charlie, tell me about school. Or the last book you read. Anything.”

“My mom and dad’s divorce?”