I could throw her through the window. The image of glass shattering in a wide, blossoming burst and Sasha flying through it, out into the woods, is satisfying for a second. Like scratching an already-raw rash.

But I just grab her by the arm (“No—no—no,” she’s sobbing) and throw her into my closet.

“Where is Frankie?” I demand.

Sasha gapes at me. “I don’t—you’re the one that had her!”

I block the doorway with one arm. “You didn’t let her out?”

“Let her out from . . .” I see hope and horror mashing on her face. “No. The others must have—”

I slam the closet door and bolt it from the outside. I bolt my bedroom from the outside, too. I was prepared. Sasha’s beating at the closet door, sobbing and screaming, as I run back down the stairs.

But there’s no time for this. Not even to think about it.

I’m back inside the shed in a heartbeat.

“You go inside, Aunt Mae,” I tell her. “They’re secure.”

“Are you sure?” She reaches up and puts a cold hand on my cheek.

“Yes. I’ll find her. It’s all right.”

With a last look at me, Aunt Mae shuffles out into the darkness.

I unlatch the root cellar door. A waft of sour, stale air breathes over me.

Anders, inside, is quiet. He’s standing on the steps, staring up at me. His eyes glitter in the dimness. His face is tight. His words come fast.

“You kept Frankie here,” he says.

“Yes.”

“You kidnapped her.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve kidnapped people before.”

“Yes.”

“Did you loosen the wheel on my car?” he asks. He isn’t even trying to climb out. He’s just watching me now. “Did you take my cat?”

“I found your cat,” I tell him. “I checked your wheel. I told your friends.”

“But you could have let Goblin die,” he says. “You could have let me die.” His voice is calm, all the panic and anger washed away. He’s blank faced, wondering, not quite believing the things he’s seen with his own eyes. “You’ve killed other people. Haven’t you?”

I don’t answer. My silence is an answer anyway.

I want the truth in the open. I want him to see it. To see me. Before the end.

Anders goes on staring at me. I see him putting the fragments together, looking down at the reflection that starts to form. “That woman,” he says. “The music executive. The one in the river. You did that.”

“She wasn’t a woman,” I tell him. “Not anymore.”

The line of his jaw flickers as it clenches. His body is shaking, but he’s trying to hide it. He doesn’t break his gaze.

“And that girl,” he says. “Corrine somebody.”

“No,” I say quickly. He knows. He found out somehow. No wonder everything is falling apart. “Not her. I tried to save her.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Then . . . what happened?”

I hesitate. I still feel the need to keep Corrine’s secrets. I promised her I would, more than a year ago, on one long night in that old blue barn.