“What did Darcy say to you?” Molly asks, mildly hyperventilating as she joins me under the watchtower. “What the hell did she do that for?”

“Darcy bought us time to look for Ricky’s Expulsion tapes,” I say.

“We’re still doing that?”

“What do you want to do? Run for the boat and leave the kids here? I already made my choice: I’m not leaving Nightlight until I can get us off the island—all of us. Nobody gets left behind. Nobody else gets hurt.”

Molly deflates, the heaviness of Drew’s death weighing strangely on her. It’s sitting strangely on me, as well. The only one of us who actually knew Drew well is Marcos, and he’s withdrawn into a blank shell, his wet, saucer eyes focusing on everything and nothing at once.

“I can’t believe he hung himself,” Molly whispers.

“Hanged,” Marcos corrects, joining us with rapid, anxious steps. “Drapes are hung, people are ha—”

“I understand!” On an exhale of agitation, Molly peels the bandage from her cheek, exposing a pink, glistening gash to the sticky air, and drops it to the road as carelessly as Darcy’s wig.

“One of us needs to climb the tower and look for those tapes,” I say, “and one of us should look over Drew’s body for…anything. A note, anything. Drew knew who killed Ricky, and maybe he has something on him that’ll point us in the right direction. And I don’t want any of you slowing us down with questions or nervous bullshit.” I swerve first to Molly, then to Marcos—neither of whom are thrilled about my tyrannical tone.

“Go nuts with Drew!” Molly sneers, craning toward the hacked-off nub of Drew’s rope, which still dangles off the bird’s nest. Her eyes narrow. “I’ll do the more useful thing and find those tapes.”

“Amazing idea, teammate!” I snipe as Molly mounts the ladder. “Careful with the middle rungs. Drew hit them when he fell.”

“Oh, should I? Should I be careful climbing a ladder that’s obviously broken?”

Marcos quickens his finger snapping, and Molly begins her climb—clammy hand after clammy hand—up twenty-eight good rungs and two bad ones. With this grubby, tropical heat and the rungs spaced so far apart, her ascent is slow. As I consider the lifeless camper at my feet—a camper I badgered right before he died—a cold guilt grazes my shoulder.

“Molly?” I call softly.

“What?”

“Sorry about…my ’tude.”

Only four rungs high, Molly presses her forehead against the wood to catch her breath. “I’m sorry too. Whatever that baby stuff was about…thanks for not ditching us.”

I pivot to Marcos, his shellacked hair starting to wilt. “And I didn’t mean to be mean about your nervousness, I’m—”