They returned together, and the angel wore an angelic smile. “I have the scissors, but even better—look what I found under the sink!” She showed Kellen a pair of pliers.

“Thank God. Thank you. Hurry.”

Old Angel manipulated the pliers as she did everything—slowly. “Your darling husband does scatter his tools around, doesn’t he? There’s a Phillips head screwdriver in there, too. But I don’t think we have a use for that, do we?”

“I tell him—every tool in its place. But he doesn’t listen.”

“Of course not, dear.” Old Angel wrapped the pliers around the head of the needle. “Can you help?”

Kellen wrapped her free hand around the angel’s and counted, “One. Two. Three.”

They yanked.

The needle stuck, then released so suddenly Old Angel staggered back.

Kellen groaned in pain and relief.

Luna barked.

They all stilled, fearing Mara’s knock at the door.

Old Angel sighed. “I don’t think she heard us.”

“She’s afraid of dogs,” Kellen told her.

“Is she?” Old Angel sounded satisfied, and not quite so angelic now.

Kellen lifted her hand from the dresser. Blood smeared the surface from the hole in her palm. Dark purple bruising radiated out toward her swollen fingers. “First aid. In the bathroom.”

“I was afraid you’d be hurt, so I brought my own first aid kit.” Old Angel made her slow way back to the door. “It’s very extensive. It has to be, you know, out here.”

Out here. Did she mean on the island? Or where she lived, between heaven and earth?

“Come, Luna, help me,” Old Angel said.

Luna left Kellen’s side and returned dragging a small suitcase with her teeth.

Old Angel followed, holding a basket. She gave Luna a chin scratch and a word of praise, picked up the suitcase and placed it on the dresser. The basket she lowered in small increments onto the floor. She rummaged inside, brought out a second thermos and opened it. “Soup,” she told Kellen, and handed her a spoon. “Drink it while it’s hot.”

Kellen recognized the soup; Olympia’s chicken and wild rice. It smelled divine and the taste…thyme, garlic, carrots, celery, all fresh from Jamie’s garden, and a free-range chicken Jamie had raised. Maybe Jamie wished extra nourishment into her husbandry so Kellen could take revenge on her murderer.

When Kellen looked up, the soup was gone, the accompanying bread was gone, and Old Angel had the contents of her first aid kit organized and waiting.

“This will hurt,” Old Angel warned.

She was right, of course. Kellen writhed as Old Angel cleaned and bandaged the wound in her hand, but when she was done, for the first time tonight, Kellen felt hope that she might survive.

“I have antibiotics.” Old Angel rummaged among her bottles. “Are you allergic to anything?”

Kellen shook her head.