Bell considers, shakes his head slowly. “Not that I can recall. Is that important?”

“I’m not sure.” She bites her lip, looks back through the bars. “If it wasn’t public knowledge that you read the Washington Post, who else would know?”

Simon shrugs carelessly. “I can’t imagine.”

Over by the desk, Kristin calls out. “Simon, I can’t find the cigarettes anywhere!”

Bell steps closer to the barricade. “Cooper,” he suggests. “Cooper knew.”

“Cooper was the second agent on Simon’s case—he had a special interest.” Emma feels the weight of time. Ross could return with the FBI escort at any second. Probably right this moment, footsteps are tapping, coming toward them down the hall. She forces herself to hold firm. “Simon, no one else knew you read the Washington Post.”

“Well,” he says, “not exactly no one.”

“Pradeep knew.”

“That’s true,” he concedes. “Wonderful Pradeep.”

“And Dr. Scott. But there’s no one else, except…”

Simon smiles encouragingly. “Come on, you’re almost there.”

Emma hears it: the sound of a key in the door. The mnemonic unlocks a recess within her own brain. She looks at Bell wildly. “Kristin said the Butcher would know the inside of the asylum. A schematic, a floor plan—”

“He knows the inside… because he’s been inside?” Bell has turned to face her now.

“A staff member.” Emma clutches his jacket. “Bell, I think the Butcher is an employee of the asylum. And he’s not young, he’s not a student, he’s—”

The door is opening.

“An older employee.” Bell’s eyes are very wide. “With medical training—”

“Oh god,” Emma says, and when she looks over Bell’s shoulder, she sees Clive Ross stepping into the room holding the lanyard of keys, with his other arm raised and an FBI-issue Smith & Wesson Model 13 pointing directly at them.

“Surprise!” Simon exclaims.

And the gates of hell swing wide.

The first shot is aimed at Bell. He has turned toward the door, half shielding Emma. His left arm lifts, an instinctive blocking movement, hand open in the universal sign for Halt.

The bullet—unsilenced, an explosion of sound in the echoing room—rips through the fabric of Bell’s jacket and shirt, spinning him around. He hits the floor before he has a chance to cry out.

Emma doesn’t hear herself scream.

Ross keeps advancing.

A great wailing cry, and Kristin Gutmunsson launches herself forward from the corner of Pradeep’s desk, wielding nothing more than the pincer tool off the wall.

She manages to hit Ross once, and hard. Not expecting an attack, he lurches sideways to his knees, the keys falling from his hand.

This is their only chance—Emma sprints forward, hunkered low. She skids across the floor and overshoots, ends up sprawling. Arm stretched back, she snatches up the keys. The lanyard slides into her hand as if it wants to be there.

Ross staggers up, turns and aims at Kristin. She gasps, backs up, not fast enough to avoid Ross—he wrenches the pincer out of her hands, throws it aside, grabs her by the hair, and drives her down against the wooden surface of the desk so violently that her head and body rebound. She slithers to the floor in a heap of linen and white tresses.