I pushed open the cabin’s front door, then went to Nitro’s legs. Jesus went to his arms. On the count of three we lifted Nitro and carried his heavy weight outside, stepping through the small lake of blood that had pooled around his body. We set him on the floorboards a few feet to the left. I folded his hands atop his bare chest in an attempt at dignity, but I couldn’t bring myself to slide closed his eyelids. I recalled attempting that with the Pepper-doll earlier in the day—or yesterday now, for that matter—and the eyelids springing open again. If this happened with Nitro…I don’t know, but I already had my fill of ghastly images from this island, and I didn’t need another.

Back inside, I closed the cabin’s door, then dragged the table in front of it. The rudimentary barricade would not stop a persistent assault. That was not the intent. It was meant to prevent Solano from sneaking up on anybody again.

“That’s not going to stop her,” Pita said.

“Not now, Pita,” I said.

“Not now? Not now?”

“I don’t want to hear anything about ghosts.”

“Why are you so blind?”

“There’s no ghost on this island.”

“We contacted her—”

“It was a hoax—”

“I felt her—”

“Ghosts don’t fucking exist!”

“Jack…” Elizaveta said.

“Solano snuck up on Nitro. That’s it.”

“Solano?” Pita said. “Solano’s dead.”

“Solano?” Jesus said, frowning.

I explained my theory again. Jesus seemed thoughtful. Pita, of course, wouldn’t have any of it.

“I felt her, Jack,” Pita repeated. “She’s here and she’s angry and—”

“It’s okay,” Elizaveta said. “We are safe.”

“Safe?” Pita said. “Safe? Look what happened to Nitro!”

To Jesus I said, “Can you calm her down?”

He went to her, speaking reassuringly. She lashed back. Their argument escalated until she threw up her hands and went to Pepper’s bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

I could hear her crying from the other side of it.

2

Later. I wasn’t sure how much later. I’d fallen asleep and had just woken up.

It was quiet—too quiet—and I realized the storm had stopped.

No wind, no rain.

Silence.

The cabin was dark. A few candles still burned.

I was alone.

Elizaveta and Jesus must have gone to the bedrooms.

I should probably get up, stick my head outside, make sure the storm was indeed over, but I found I didn’t want to move.

The table was no longer in front of the door.

Where was it?

Who’d moved it?

Jesus?

Probably. He’d probably gone outside just as I’d planned to go outside.

Too quiet.

Was I alone? Alone alone? Had Jesus and Pita and Elizaveta left me? Were they down at the pier, waiting for the boatman?

That’s what it felt like, that the cabin wasn’t empty, that it was deserted.