“Good luck with your prostate,” Razor Burn called after Archie.

Archie ignored him, but did glance back one more time at the Russian as they left the house. He had recrossed his arms and was looking straight ahead, where Razor Burn had settled back against the wall, directly in the Russian’s field of vision. The broken glass was still at his feet.

Then Archie followed Star through the door and out into the night.

She was several feet ahead, and Archie had to hurry to catch up with her. She navigated the grounds easily—she had clearly spent some time here. They passed other guests, but everyone was drunk and no one seemed to notice them as they went by, moving off the main path to a smaller one and then around the left side of the house along the border of one of the waist-high hedge mazes that Jack had installed throughout the grounds. Archie wondered how many decomposing bodies of lost guests turned up in those things. Star led him around the back side of the hedge. The path was gravel and their steps made a grinding noise as they walked. Tiny rocks spit out from under Star’s heels, but it didn’t slow her down. There wasn’t a bar on this side of the house, and it wasn’t well lit. Archie couldn’t see any other guests now. The electronic music still pounded but they were far away enough from any speakers that it was background din.

Star stopped, hugging her arms for warmth as late evening set in. A lone torch flickered nearby, casting her face in a jittery tangerine glow. It was the first time Archie realized that she didn’t have a mask. Her glittery black dress winked and sparkled. Something glinted in her hair. At first Archie thought it was a barrette.

“Thanks for the graceful exit,” Star said.

It was a kiss-off. Archie had served his purpose. She was in a rush. And it had something to do with whatever was in the bag.

“What are you doing here?” Archie asked her. He was trying to stall her. It wasn’t a barrette; it was something wet. Archie peered at Star’s hairline, attempting to puzzle out what had briefly caught the torchlight.

“Look,” she said. “You’re sweet. But I have to go.”

Archie reached his hand up and touched her hair. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t even look surprised. She was used to men hitting on her. She took it like a pro.

Archie moved his fingers away from her head and showed them to her. The torchlight bathed them both in uncertain dark shadows that quivered with the flame. Archie could smell the citronella torch oil burning, a pungent chemical lemon mixed with sulfur. He held his hand nearer to the torch so she could see the stain of red on his fingertip.