Bell’s blood has a viscosity, moving slowly into the syringe cylinder. Hoyt seems to find it fascinating.

“That’s good,” he mutters. “Yes.”

The cylinder goes up to ten milliliters, and Hoyt prods her, so that is how much she draws. When she’s done, Bell looks paler than before. He’s already lost a lot of blood.

“Now Miss Gutmunsson,” Hoyt says.

He lets her go over to Kristin alone. The plastic packets feel heavy in Emma’s hands. Kristin is lying on her left side, facing away from the desk, and Emma decides to leave her that way and just tug her arm carefully into position, so it’s stretched out on the floor.

She fumbles with the packets. Every second she delays, the FBI has more time to find the circuit breakers and unlock the doors—

“Miss Lewis,” Hoyt says. Light glints off the scalpel he has poised near Bell’s right eye. “Shall I blind him first?”

She wets her lips. “No.”

“Then don’t dawdle, Miss Lewis.”

She ties the tourniquet.

Simon is suspiciously quiet, but she can’t glance over her shoulder right now. She looks again at Hoyt. He’s set the scalpel down; with the gun in his right hand, he’s injecting himself with Bell’s blood. His gaze loses focus for a moment, becomes narcotically glassy as he pushes the plunger in.

Emma wants to retch. She looks down at Kristin Gutmunsson’s arm.

Kristin is awake.

It seems she’s been awake for some time. Her eyes aren’t fluttering. They’re peeking behind her lids.

“Make sure you do a good job on my sister,” Simon calls. “Don’t leave her with a scar!”

There’s a subtle change of timbre there. Attenuated darkness. Emma suddenly knows in her gut that Simon has realized his twin is conscious.

Kristin does an outstanding job of pretending to be still passed out. Her body is lax as a dancer’s in repose, and there’s no giveaway flinching when Emma inserts the needle, begins to draw blood. Emma feels the presence of the foyer key—lying hidden in Kristin’s pocket—like a hot secret coal, glowing warm through the fabric. She snaps the tourniquet off.

“Bring the sample here,” Hoyt says.

As soon as he has Kristin’s syringe, Hoyt walks over to the cell. He puts the scalpel in his pocket and the gun in his waistband as he stands in front of Simon with his inner elbow exposed.

“I thought you’d like to watch while I inject your sister’s blood.” His expression is much less civilized now. He inserts the needle smoothly, presses the plunger. “Oh, yes. That’s nice—very nice.”

“I will kill you, you know,” Simon remarks conversationally.

Hoyt removes the needle, bunches his arm, and grins, a forty-something man taunting a boy less than half his age. Simon’s a psychopath, but the power differential is disturbing.

Hoyt turns. “Now you, Miss Lewis.”

“I wouldn’t bother taking any from Emma.” Simon is spinning and unspinning himself. He looks like a long white grub trying to emerge from his cocoon. “She hates you so much her blood would probably poison you.”