Karim flicked the knife and Susan yelped as an arc of blood spat forward onto her shirt and the toes of her shoes. Archie heard his own voice cry out as she was hurt, a strangled sound of pain that might have been only in his mind. He waited, frantic and useless. There was no arterial spray. Susan was still standing. Her earlobe bore a dark red cleft where the knife had split it.

Susan was mewling, tears streaming down her cheeks. It killed Archie to witness her terror, to be so close and yet so worthless. She was looking at him, pleading with her eyes, and there was nothing he could do. If he lunged at them, Karim would surely cut her throat. The sirens seemed like they were getting closer, but for all Archie knew they could be responding to a fire on the other side of the lake. Susan was limp in Karim’s grip now, surrendering to him completely. Satisfaction spread across Karim’s face. Archie’s stomach turned. Karim was feeding off her fear.

There was no fire. The sirens were coming for them. It occurred to Archie in a flash. Karim’s teaspoon. No one had called 911 from the island because no one had needed to—the DNA must have matched trace evidence found on Lisa Watson’s body. Even if something happened to Archie, Henry would have the evidence he needed to put Karim away.

Archie stepped in front of the door, grasping for something to say that would buy their reinforcements some time. “You dug it up,” Archie said.

Karim’s mouth twitched. He lifted his elbow as if he might drive the knife across Susan’s throat.

Cooper hadn’t blinked, his eyes fixed down the barrel of his weapon, finger on the trigger.

Susan shut her eyes.

“The knife,” Archie continued. “It’s dirty.”

“You’re watching me,” Karim said. His eyes traveled around the room. “I knew you were watching me.”

He was right at the cusp, like a flame near gas. Archie thought he might combust before their eyes.

“I can’t let you leave this room, Karim,” Archie said.

“Archie,” Cooper barked.

Archie swung his head around. Razor Burn had somehow managed to prop himself up onto his elbows, his gut in a slippery pink heap, a gun in his hand. Archie could see the ankle holster he’d drawn the gun from between his pant leg and his black sock. His face was pallid and waxen and blood coated his mouth, but his eyes were trained on Archie and the gun seemed steady enough.

“Shoot him,” Karim said.