I see the bullet smack Sebastian high on a shoulder, the spatter of blood where it enters his skin, the way it punches his torso into the wall. I see the smear he leaves on the eggshell paint as he slides down to the ground, the way his lips curl upward into a smile.

“I told you somebody’d get shot at the first sign of sirens. Didn’t I tell you that?”

My ears are still ringing from the gunshot, but I hear his breathy laughter loud and clear. Another stupid, demented joke. Despite the bullet, despite the blood turning his shirt shiny, he’s pleased with himself.

His gaze wanders to Beatrix, still half-flopped on the floor, to the gun lying next to her on the carpet. Her face is still fish-belly white, but those two spots on her cheeks are so red they’re almost purple. “I gotta give you props, kid. You’ve been an excellent adversary. A real pain in my ass, but an excellent adversary. I didn’t even see you cut yourself loose. What’d you use—a knife? Scissors?”

Cam’s pocketknife pulses in my hand.

Beatrix fumbles for the gun, but I lunge and beat her there, plucking it from the floor, swinging it back to Sebastian. I’ve shot a gun only a few times in my life, and if Cam were here he’d tell you I’m the worst shot he’s ever seen. But with less than ten feet between me and my target, I’m certain I could do some damage. Head, torso, heart. I’ll keep shooting until I hit something lethal.

But Sebastian hasn’t moved. He just sits there, slumped against the wall, legs bent like an awkward grasshopper. His knees jut upward, bony caps pointed to the sky.

He presses a palm to his shoulder, wincing. “Do me a favor and make it a kill shot this time, would you? Put me out of my misery.” With a groan, he stretches his legs flat onto the floor. “I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but I’m guessing the only people who will shed a tear for me are the ones watching from those cameras.”

I frown, gaze flitting to the dummy speaker above his head. “What people?”

“Oh, did I forget to tell you? Those camera feeds don’t just stream to your phone. They stream to mine, too, and a couple of other people’s. Oh, and maybe a laptop or two that may or may not be pushing the footage onto the internet. I guess I forgot to mention it.”

Beatrix scoots closer to where I am on my knees. With my free arm, I shove her behind me. “Mommy, what cameras?” she says in my ear.

Sebastian gestures to them—the clock, the speaker, the plastic fire alarm. “One, two, three. Wave for the camera, kid.”