Ignoring her, he said to Jesus: “Where?”

He shrugged. “The kitchen. When you and Pita were outside, on watch.”

“Where in the kitchen?”

“On the counter.”

“Jack, stop pointing that gun,” Pita said. “You’re scaring me.”

Jack ignored her too. “On the counter, huh?”

“So what?” Jesus said.

“Eliza, go see if there’s a knife on the counter.”

Elizaveta crossed the main room, wondering what was going on. Why did it matter where the knife was from? She poked her head in the kitchen, wrinkling her nose at the smell of something rotten. It was dark, no candles lit. Yet her eyes had long ago adjusted to the dim environment, and she could see well enough. A couple of bowls and plates rested on the counter. Next to them was a single fork. No knife.

She returned to the others. “No knife.”

“See?” Jesus said. “Now stop pointing that fucking gun at me, Jack.”

“I saw that knife earlier,” Jack said. “When I was here by myself, when I first found Rosa.”

“So what? I told you—”

“There wasn’t any blood on it.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have attacked me, Jack. It was self-defense.”

“There was blood on it before you stabbed me, Jesus.”

A deep silenced ensured.

“What are you talking about, Jack?” Pita demanded.

Elizaveta frowned, trying to make sense of this. Where did the blood come from if it wasn’t Jack’s—

Her breath hitched in her throat.

“Nitro?” she said so quietly she wasn’t sure she’d spoken out loud.

“Nitro?” Pita repeated, apparently hearing her. “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?”

“Why’d you kill him?” Jack asked Jesus.

“Killed who?” Pita said. “Nitro?”

Jesus chuckled, shaking his head. “Are you listening to yourself, Jack?”

“What’s he talking about, Jesus?” Pita asked him.

“Nothing. He doesn’t know anything. This is bullshit.”

“Why’d you kill him?” Jack repeated.

“Stop it, Jack!” Pita said. “Why are you saying this? Why would Jesus ever want to kill Nitro?” She glanced around the room, as if for answers. Her eyes paused on the empty vodka bottle on the floor, next to Elizaveta’s forgotten garden claw and Jack’s hay hook. “You’ve been drinking, Jack. Are you drunk?”

“He’s not drunk,” Elizaveta said.

Pita whirled on her, temper flaring. “Shut up, bitch! Jesus is your boyfriend. You should be on his side. Why are you listening to Jack?”

“Where’s your jacket?” Jack asked Jesus.

He shrugged. “I took it off.”

“Where is it?”

“In the other hut. I didn’t bring it.”

Elizaveta thought back. She couldn’t remember whether he’d worn his tweed jacket to the cabin or not. She’d had much more on her mind this night than trivialities such as clothing.

“Unroll your sleeves,” Jack said.

Jesus had rolled the sleeves of his white button-down shirt to his elbows. “Fuck you, Jack,” he said. “I’ve had enough of this.”