The Beginners, on the other hand, are having a wild time—their first laugh in months. Toward the back of the huddle, Christina and Anke whisper to each other through cupped hands; Jack stares in wide-eyed fascination; Lacrishia clutches a spear in one hand and tiny Owen in the other, both of them in silent agreement to avert their eyes until we’ve finished dressing; finally, Alan and Vance snicker the loudest, a pair of delighted smiles plastered onto their cheeks with the certainty that, yes—Marcos and I boned each other on this very spot less than ten minutes ago.

“Alan and Vance, you keep laughing, damn it!” Marcos growls, instantly blowing away their grins. Everyone straightens as faces fall all around the cave. No one’s ever heard Marcos talk this way—a fatherly, scolding boom. A voice in line with his size. I like it…but I don’t like it. What he and I did in this sanctum uncaged something in Marcos: a neglected, underfed animal, its teeth now bared to the world. I felt it in his touch, and it didn’t unsettle me at the time because—twist—I was enjoying myself. But I’ve seen this group scared into silence only twice before: with Briggs and the Reverend. They have this power too.

What if Marcos isn’t out of the woods yet?

Our oasis officially desecrated, Molly steers the conversation away from Marcos and me and toward what the hell it is we’re going to do next. In the three hours since we escaped Miss Manners’s firing squad, Molly educated Lacrishia and every last Beginner, no matter how young or shell-shocked they were, on what is known and what is not known: the Reverend murdered Drew because of what he knew about the deaths of former camper Ricky Hannigan and his husband, Rigo.

And we’re all next if we don’t exit stage left pronto.

Delivering justice to Ricky and catching his killer is a dream drifting further out to sea with each passing hour, almost disappearing over the horizon under the gravity of Drew’s murder—and how easily Nightlight could convince our families that our deaths weren’t suspicious at all, that we were simply little lost lambs who hanged ourselves. Tragedies beyond help.

My mom would believe it. She’d bury me and live her whole life next to the Reverend, never once looking cross-eyed at him.

Escape must happen TONIGHT.

“Our number one priority is getting Darcy out of that bunker,” I say, expecting the crowd to be with me on this one. Yet more than half of the people staring back at me flinch.

“We’ve been talking about that,” Lacrishia speaks up, no more than a polite mewling at first as the sanctum’s torchlight washes over her. “The priority is getting the kids off the island first.”

“I absolutely disagree—” I say.

“I understand, but...” Lacrishia starts timidly.