He doesn’t turn to face her when she arrives, but Emma knows it doesn’t matter: Simon sees everything. She settles herself on the floor with her props, waiting for the harsh floodlight of his full attention.

He ties another piece of string in place. “You seem a little haphazardly groomed today, Emma. Have you been imbibing?”

He’s noticed the bottle on the floor beside her. “Hello, Simon. No, I haven’t. But I have been talking to your sister.”

“Naturally. How is she?”

“She’s fine, but I don’t know for how long.” Emma hates to use Raymond’s play, but then she thinks of the Berryville victims, Simon’s part in that. Her anger about it is something she has to manage. “The FBI has mentioned reexamining her details from your old case.”

He pauses over the final knot. “That would be unfortunate.”

“That would be your fault,” Emma points out. “You were the one who put everyone in such an awkward position in the first place.”

He gives her a shark grin over his shoulder. “Putting people in awkward positions is rather my specialty.”

Emma recollects the tea party scene again, pushes the memory away. “You can stop pretending now, Simon. We know about the letters.”

Another, longer pause. His back is to her and she can’t see his expression. He completes his task, steps down off the bed, and sits on the mattress, his face composed.

“Ah.”

“Yes. Ah.”

Emma opens the bottle, knowing he can smell it, and pours herself a drink. The wine doesn’t really qualify as “high quality,” but neither did the corner store where she bought it: The age-verification process involved the proprietor asking, “How old are you?” and Emma looking him straight in the eye and replying, “Twenty-one.” But it was the most expensive red wine they had, and she suspects that after two years of incarceration, Simon’s tastes may have become more catholic.

She takes a cautious sip. “Mm. This really isn’t bad.”

His eyes are narrowed. “Were you hoping to surprise me about the letters, then soften me up with the wine?”

“Maybe.” She shrugs.

“I do have standards.”

“Really? But standards and principles are for people who give a shit about the social contract, aren’t they?”

Simon’s brows lift. “That’s a bit harsh.”

Emma’s having none of it. “Your standards and principles apply to wine, but they don’t extend to valuing the lives of other people.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Not really. You did once poison a dormitory full of ten-year-olds.”

“I was only a ten-year-old myself. Don’t I get points for effort?”

She’s perilously close to losing patience. “Simon, you’ve been advising the Butcher on how to perfect his technique. And you’ve withheld information we could’ve used to save some of those kids in Berryville.”

“Teenagers die all the time.” He waves a hand. He’s drawn thin decorative bands around his wrist in black felt pen. “I couldn’t see the point in telling you. Then you’d catch the Butcher and there’d be no more visits, no more scintillating conversations, no bottles of wine.…”