Emma is uncomfortably aware that she was making a similar argument to Bell in the car two nights ago.

“But that in itself is interesting, Emma. Why did they bring you all the way from Podunk, Ohio? Are you special somehow?”

The hair on her arms lifts. “I told you. There’s nothing special about me.”

Gutmunsson stubs out his cigarette on the bed rail. “Now, don’t be coy. I think you are special.”

She rises from her seat on the floor, trying to make the movement seem natural. Every cell in her body is blaring a warning. “I’d like my questionnaire back now, if you’re finished with it.”

“A very special girl,” Gutmunsson whispers, staring at her, “who works with the FBI. Miss Emma Lewis from Ohio…”

She sees the moment in him when he knows, feels it like a vibration in her spine. Her vertebrae quiver like a radio antenna and she has to brace her legs. Gutmunsson stands, pages slowly tipping from his lap and onto the floor of his cell like a drift of blue leaves.

“Miss Emma Lewis from Ohio—the last bride of Daniel Huxton…” Haloed by light from the stained-glass windows, his face is enraptured. His pupils expand into a maelstrom of blackness. “The girl who got away, the girl who ran. Oh, if only I’d realized this sooner! What fun we might have had!”

“I think we’re done talking now.” Emma hears how her voice has gone thready, feels as if she is tipping toward some endless, horrific maw.

“Answer one question for me first—you thought you were running away to save the other girls as well as yourself, didn’t you? Did it burn, when you realized the truth?”

“That’s two questions,” she says automatically. “I’m going to leave now.”

“Is that why you came to work for the FBI, Emma? To make yourself feel better about it?”

“I came to work for the FBI so I could help them catch people like you.” But her lips are numb, and the words feel clunky in her mouth, like an ill-fitting retainer.

“They don’t understand, though, do they?” Gutmunsson grips the bars, shivering with excitement. “The FBI isn’t known for its lateral thinking. They’ve got you slaving over old cases, gathering useless information.… They don’t understand you at all! A fighter like you! One of their best soldiers, and they’re wasting you! They probably think you shaved your hair to scare people off—”

“Will you give me back my pages, please?”

“Did you know he would slit their throats when you ran?”

She feels pressure building up behind her eyes, and in her soft palate.

“It must have cut you to the quick, when you found out. Did it cut you, Emma?”

Her vision goes white and her voice bursts out like an explosion. “YES, okay? It cut me. Is that what you want to know? Is that what you want to hear?”

The echoes of her shout ring through the chapel, like ripples in deep water. Gutmunsson looks at her, seems to breathe her energy in. A great calm comes over him.