Clouds of noxious, pitch-black smoke snuff out every fair or empathetic thought in my head as my mother’s memory returns. Mom sang the Witch’s song. Mom wanted me to delete Ario—and my entire identity—off social media, but I wouldn’t do it. The Witch’s song meant do as I say or I’ll make you pay, and Mom is no different. Puppet strings meant more to her than her son. She ordered Briggs to kidnap me. Briggs—the man who kidnaps kids. The man Drew Schreiber thought it would be fun to kiss and mess around with. Drew allowed Briggs to torture these kids and did nothing to stop him.

“Good,” I growl. Marcos turns, confused. Drew’s eyes stay peacefully shut, but his throat is ragged and charred with dark violet. The clouds in my head won’t break apart, and I can’t think of anything except: “GOOD!”

“Hey,” Marcos says, and his soft hand cups my cheek. My stinging eyes dart from Marcos’s relaxed, open face to his hand. He’s touching me…not pulling back or twitching. His touch still brings the topsy-turvy carnival of pleasure and nausea to my stomach, but I don’t flinch—I want his hand there. His empathetic touch Pied Pipers the cruel, bilious thoughts out of my mind, and the pain my anger had been blocking returns like a backdraft. “Connor…?”

“I’m okay,” I sniff, my chin trembling in his touch. “I’m not happy Drew’s dead. I didn’t mean to say it.”

“I know…” Marcos releases me, but a nagging inconsistency remains: What was Drew doing with this Playbill? Along with this unanswerable question comes the mounting concern over how long we’ve been here, kneeling alone at Drew’s body with no Reverend or gray-shirt in sight.

Stalled halfway up the ladder, Molly considers her next move. She’s arrived at the two splintered rungs. The rung above the damage is within her reach, but when she pokes it, it wobbles against the flimsy nails pinning it to the structure.

“Is it safe?” I call up, my question echoing through the jungle’s stillness.

“I don’t Goddamn know,” Molly groans, poking the semi-loose rung again. “What if I fall?”

“I’m not gonna let you fall,” Marcos says. His assurance makes me swoon and imagine tumbling into his beefy, waiting arms, but Molly returns his gallantry with an eye roll.

“My hero. Save your showing off for Miss Manners.” Molly stretches her trembling fingers over the unsteady rung, but before she lets her feet leave the safety of her perch, she turns back to Marcos. “Actually, I would like to take you up on your offer of not letting me fall, please.”

At Marcos’s generous nod, Molly sucks in a breath and swings for the next rung.