“Stay behind me,” Henry commanded in a low whisper as I reached him on my ascent back up the stairs.

When we stepped into the Simmonses’ foyer, we saw why Mischa had opened the door at such an odd angle. She held Violet in a headlock and had her hunched over in a way that prevented her from making eye contact with Henry and me.

A bolt of terror shot through me. I wouldn’t consider my emotional maturity adequate for the task of negotiating the release of a hostage, and I was not prepared to watch Violet—or anyone else—die. There was truly no telling what Mischa might do, and what it would mean for all of us if she decided to snap Violet’s neck and make us witnesses to a violent murder. She had extraordinary upper-body strength for a young woman our age; she specialized in floor routine and the parallel bars in competitions.

“No phones,” Mischa growled at us through gritted teeth.

“Just do what she says,” Violet instructed us. “There are knives in the kitchen, and she isn’t playing around.”

“Mischa, come on. This is ludicrous,” Henry, ever the peacemaker, said in a calm voice.

Mischa fired back hatefully, “My sister’s in a coma. Every hour that passes, she suffers more brain damage. I don’t think this is ludicrous.”

My heart ached for Mischa. Jennie and I had shared a bond so special before her death that I was, even then, eight years later, desperate to restore it in any way I could. Mischa and Amanda weren’t twins, but shared a similar bond. They were sisters, but they were best friends, too. I couldn’t imagine how Mischa would ever navigate the loss of her parents if she also lost Amanda.

Henry gently continued, “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but we’re all on the same side, here.”

Mischa shook her head. She was wearing an oversize T-shirt over leggings, and looked like she hadn’t showered or brushed her hair in days—which may very well have been the case. “Violet’s not on our side! She started this—and I figured out how to end it. We need to play the game again!”

I took a step back in fear and reached for the gris-gris I wore around my neck to be sure it was still there. I’d never seen Mischa look so disheveled and enraged before. Her state was understandable considering everything that had happened, but it was still jarring to see someone—a friend—who was usually so together look so completely… monstrous. “It won’t work, Mischa. We did play the game again, in January with Violet while you were missing. All it did was lift the curse off her and put it on you because it had skipped you.”

“I know that! Don’t you think I know? You’re not listening!” she insisted. “We’ll play the game, and I’ll predict Violet’s death so that the curse moves back to her, and then she’ll have to kill herself—while it’s on her. It’s the only way to end this. The person who’s cursed has to die.”