Suicidal thoughts? This nightmare is traumatic enough without realizing some of these sweetie-pies have thought about actual suicide. Karaoke Bill scans the crowd, and his drooping eyes soften—briefly—before rolling. “All right,” he says, “get ’em out of here. But Beginners only. The others stay.”

My heavy heart warms for Lacrishia, who bothered to focus on the kids in this moment rather than on murder mystery clues. She mutters thanks to Bill for being a human being and then waves over the remaining Beginners. Two girls—Anke and Christina, she calls them—dart to her side like bullets. Vance unclenches from Molly, whispering, “Oh, thank God, thank God, thank God” as he joins them. Jack nods to Darcy before completing the Beginner squad. The tiny boy, Owen, refuses to move or even pry himself from Lacrishia’s chest. “Owen, come on,” Jack says, patting the boy’s head. “Let’s go to the lake.” Owen peeks open his eyes before letting himself nod.

Without looking back, Lacrishia leads six children down the road, leaving the remaining four of us with Bill, Drew’s body, and a chorus of screeching insects and birds of paradise. Molly abandons the safe distance of the Gulch’s doorway to complete our group, and Darcy snatches my wrist. “You really think there’s Expulsion tapes up in that tower?” she whispers. I make it through half a nod before she powers through: “When I leave, you won’t have a lot of time. Five minutes, maybe ten. No dicking around. Find the tapes.”

“When you leave?” I ask. “What?”

“What are y’all whispering about…?” Marcos asks.

“This is our only chance,” Darcy says, gathering short, quick breaths like she’s prepping for a marathon. She studies Bill, hovering over Drew’s body as he coils the hangman’s rope around his elbow. In one fluid move, Darcy tears off her poofy bob wig, flinging rainbow-colored barrettes into the air. Her natural, cropped hair hits the wind, and she runs her fingers through the tight curls. “Good luck,” she says, winking. “And don’t fuck it up.”

She breaks into a sprint toward Bill. “Wait—!” I yelp, but it’s too late.

“SONS OF BITCHES!” Darcy roars as her lithe body leaps, clears Drew, and crash-lands into the old goat’s chest. Marcos, Molly, and I scream as Darcy slaughters him: scratching, kicking, flailing, cursing. Darcy pummels Bill, who is too startled to fight back properly; he can only shield his face. “You’re crazy? Well, I’m crazy too!”

“Darcy!” Molly and Marcos holler, but my hungry eyes turn red. Get him. Terrify him. Make him bleed. Darcy’s fury is real and highly relatable.