This reverie was knocked from her mind when she heard a vehicle pull up outside, the distinct crunch of its tires on gravel, its engine shutting off. The pressure on the back of her head was relinquished and she popped up, then crawled a little way. Shocked tears spouted from her eyes. Xander tightened his hold and stopped her from going too far. Her torn T-shirt hung off one shoulder.

“Off me,” she gasped.

The warehouse’s side door banged open. Footsteps chimed in the metallic stairway. The police, Kitty thought hopefully, peering through the flickering light. But no, it was only Ruben Osterfeld. This nightmare would continue.

A confused expression had clouded Sly Boy’s face, visible through all the blood and bruising.

“Rube?” he hissed.

Ruben ignored him. He went to Johan, handing him something—Kitty didn’t see what—as the two shared quiet words. Johan nodded, pocketing whatever Ruben had given him.

“Thank you,” Johan whispered. “Good work.”

“Rube?” Sly Boy said again. “What the fuck, man?”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Johan asked Sly Boy, and then, to Ruben: “You didn’t tell him about us?”

Ruben lowered his eyes.

“Well, that’s embarrassing.” Johan pulled a mock-awkward face, resting the ax on his shoulder once again. “Ruben’s been going behind your back, Kris. He and I have been working together for a few months now.”

“Oh fuck,” Sly Boy muttered.

“Yeah,” Johan said. He walked over to Sly Boy, who tried to back away, chains dragging. “I know all your dirty secrets.”

“Johan, please . . . let’s just—”

The ax came down in a heavy semicircle. It didn’t whoosh or thrum. It was quick and silent. Sly Boy recoiled but couldn’t go anywhere. His face flowed with multiple expressions, each canceling out the other. It was a full but featureless oval—a rain cloud. The ax’s blade struck the back of his neck, but not cleanly. Johan staggered with the effort. Blood splashed his jeans and his polished brown shoes.

It took two attempts to remove Sly Boy’s head from his shoulders.

Kitty didn’t know which detail was more gruesome—that Sly Boy’s head had rolled across the smooth cement and cozied up to Angelo’s, or that his body remained on its hands and knees, kept from falling by the tightness of the chains. She stared, disbelieving, barely breathing. Bizarrely, she thought of the lovebird she had plucked out of the air in Barrett Lorne’s aviary, and how hollow its bones had felt.

Johan walked toward her, dragging the ax along the floor behind him. It scraped. A sound like winter. Kitty looked up as he approached. There was a scream in her chest, held down by something, and she realized that it might never escape—only bubble away for however long she had left.