“Anthony Hoyt,” she whispers finally.

Bell blinks, then he stabilizes and it registers. “The list.”

“Miss Lewis,” Hoyt says, “untie Mr. Bell’s jacket sleeves and pull out his left arm. Tie his right arm back onto the desk. And then get the needle—”

“No,” Emma says. “I won’t take donations for you.”

Hoyt hits her with the gun. It knocks her sideways and onto Bell’s sprawled-out legs. The force of the blow explodes inside her head, hammers her skull as she pulls herself back up.

Bell’s sweating with the pain of the bullet wound, but now he’s about as far from passed out as he could possibly get. “Emma. Emma.”

“Well, that was uncalled for.” Simon, from his unique viewpoint in the cell.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Hoyt asks.

“Emma, do it,” Bell says. “Just do what he says.”

“He’s going to bleed you,” Emma whispers. The red line now leaking down her cheek from her eyebrow feels like a tear.

“I don’t give a fuck. Untie me. Come on.”

She has to clamber closer to untie Bell. When his left arm comes loose, Bell makes a soft gasp. He keeps that arm tucked against his body as she secures his right arm. She leaves some wiggle room in the jacket, and she doesn’t think Hoyt notices.

Simon is talking again. “Why do you think he uses the blood, Emma? Do you know?”

“Simon, now isn’t the time.” Hoyt is starting to sound exasperated.

“But I feel so inspired! It’s because of his vanity, Emma. His fear of mortality and death. Everyone ages and everyone dies. Even me. Even our friend Mr. Hoyt. But he wants to slow the aging process.”

“Shut up now, Simon.”

“Oh, Anthony! Come on! It’s textbook Byron, the ‘mortal coldness of the soul’ from ‘Youth and Age.’ Can you really not see that? Or did you pull all those lovely quotes in your letters out of Reader’s Digest?”

Hoyt seems to find the whole turn of the conversation irritating, and it makes him aggressive. He reaches down and grabs Emma’s arm, hauls her up.

“I only brought three needles, so I suppose we’ll have to share.” He selects the scalpel, tests it on the hair on her forearm. The scalpel has dried blood on it. “You’re going to take blood from Mr. Bell, and I’m going to hold this scalpel to his throat. If you don’t behave nicely, I’ll slice his carotid. Now take this.”

He thrusts tubing and plastic packets into her hands.

“Kneel down—that’s right. Roll up his sleeve and tie the tourniquet above his elbow.”

“Yes, Emma.” Simon’s voice is sardonic. “Make sure you get a good sample.”

Bell watches her the whole time. He doesn’t seem to care about the sharp steel Hoyt has poised under his jaw. When Emma falters—opening the packet with the needle, fitting the needle to the syringe, inserting the syringe into his arm—he says, “Come on, Lewis,” and she recovers enough to keep going.