“What the f—?” Bill whines, finally using his elderly-but-hearty weight to scoop Darcy off her feet. Still shrieking and clawing, Darcy hits the dirt ass-first. By the time she’s back on her feet, the taser is in Bill’s fist—she absorbs a crack of violet lightning to her ribs and drops limply next to Drew.

“No…” Molly says, itching to join the fracas, but I stop her with a gentle nudge. Whatever this is, it’s part of Darcy’s plan.

Bill’s chest heaves, his cheeks lined with bleeding, angry cat scratches. “You got something to do with this?” he demands, waving his taser at me.

At the sight of the weapon, my stomach retracts and hides behind my lower intestine. “She’s totally losing it,” I say, shaking my head.

“Goddamn lunatic is right. That really hurt!” Bill sheaths his taser and hoists Darcy over his shoulder like a sack of laundry. Our friend is awake, but powerless and moaning. “She’s going into the bunker. Mr. Carrillo, watch these two and wait for Archie.”

“Sure,” Marcos says.

“If Mr. Major runs or touches anything or breathes funny, it’s on you. Yes?”

“We’re staying put. Promise.”

Karaoke Bill groans again, pissed and lobbing F-bombs the entire journey down the Coral Road to the lake: where the Reverend and Briggs went; where Lacrishia and the Beginners went. It’ll be at least ten minutes before news reaches the Reverend. At least five minutes before the gray-shirts come back. Darcy has ensured that Molly, Marcos, and I have our time alone with the watchtower after all.

The clock is ticking.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ALONE TIME

Darcy and Bill disappear noiselessly around the bend in the Coral Road leading to the lake, and from there, Darcy will be thrown into the bunker—animal cages, she called them. She leapt headfirst into severe punishment (and gave Bill the beating of his life) to secure this opportunity for us, so I’m not going to waste a moment. Two minutes ago, the courtyard was packed with every soul on this island, but now there’s only Molly, Marcos, me, and the body.

Drew’s body.

A sudden, intense need for the bathroom kinks my stomach as I close the final few steps separating me from Drew. He looks younger dead. His long, hairless legs no longer remind me of some Olympian Instagram god, but a child who will never grow older than twenty. Trembling, I reassemble the shattered remains of the Little Bottle In My Heart and stuff all my fears inside: grief over the pain Drew must’ve felt, self-pity that my goading about his aunt may have triggered him, anguish that his aunt will never see her nephew alive, frustration that Drew took the secret of Ricky and Rigo’s killer to his grave, and finally…terror at coming face-to-face with my first non-funeral dead body.

He isn’t dead. He’s just sleeping.