In the doorway, Karaoke Bill blocks our exit, his right hand gloved in blood as it clutches the spear shard. He doesn’t even need to catch his breath.

The closet is our only option. Marcos and I could run inside, shut it, and block Bill out with our combined weights. But the door is thin and flimsy. Bill could easily kick it in—or worse, ram the spear through it and into us.

“Give me Ricky,” Bill orders. “I only want my son. I just want to go home…same as you.”

My central nervous system might collapse at any minute. Bill could absolutely kill us even if I handed over the urn. The injustice scalds like oil—Ricky’s ashes deserve to be with Rigo’s. The Reverend died trying to do one good thing, and that was to help Ricky get home. Away from his dad. But as Death Himself lurches for us, brandishing the world’s largest splinter, a poisonous voice in my head returns with some perspective:

Ricky can help you.

“Sorry, Ricky,” I whisper, raising the heavy urn above my head. I’m gonna bash Bill’s head in with his own kid, and then we’re all getting out of here.

Deranged panic sweeps over Bill as he realizes what’s coming. “No—!”

I pitch the urn like a shot put, but my fingers know not to let go as Darcy’s arm appears in the hallway. She emerges from the shadows behind Bill, who is still fixated on the urn. Darcy lands a black Pez dispenser to his ear. “Hey, Bill,” she says.

As he turns, she fires.

A violet arc of electricity rockets through Bill’s skull, violently jerking his shoulders like someone is telling him to get a hold of himself. Before I can blink, Bill drops to his knees and into a ball beside his nephew.

Relief pummels my heart so rapidly, I’m at risk for a serious coronary. Darcy smashed Bill’s lights out, and she’s wasting no time hauling his limp arms behind his back to bind them with handcuffs. “Got you now…” she growls as she works. Bill moans lifelessly—she didn’t kill him. Marcos and I stay frozen in a statuesque pose; him hugging me, me hugging Ricky’s urn.

We’re okay. Ricky’s okay.

“Oh my God, where’d you get a taser…and handcuffs?” I ask, relishing the thud-thud-thud of Marcos’s heartbeat on my back.

“A new friend,” Darcy replies.