“What the hell are you doing?” Jonathan called. “Let’s get this finished.” Then to Carly: “Just bring it to me. Bring it to me and I’ll let her go. I’m sorry.”

Carly watched Owen, who ignored them both. She plucked at the hem of her T-shirt with her free hand.

But she didn’t go to Jonathan.

At the open hatch, Owen laid his arm across his waist, holding back his jacket, almost a courtly prelude to a bow, which he then did, arm extended into the back of the truck.

He came out with a rectangle, cardboard maybe, crossed in duct tape and aflame at one end. He walked around with his torch, away from Jonathan, putting the car between them.

Jonathan was buoyant with adrenaline, as if he were lifting off, hovering slightly beyond what he was actually doing. He couldn’t make it mean anything. Was Owen going to start another fire in the grass? “What the fuck are you doing?”

Owen watched the flame at a casual arm’s length. Admiring it. Drawing all their attention to its glow.

“Stop! Not another goddamned step. What are you doing?”

Owen cocked his head as if Jonathan hadn’t spoken English. And he certainly didn’t stop. Across the roof of Jonathan’s own car, Owen smiled at him, big teeth flashing. He opened the driver’s side and pitched the burning box in with Marcelline and closed the door again.

It was Monopoly. Jonathan was transfixed by the sight of it on his seat. Cheery white and red where it wasn’t on fire. GO! on one end, big bold question mark on the other. Indeed. All of life summed up and burning. The leather of the seat melted instantly under it. The steering wheel smoked. The carpet oozed black smoke.

Carly’s piercing shriek rent the air and broke the spell.

“Shit!” Jonathan recoiled a stagger step back in horror as Marcelline went wild-eyed, flailing to the short limit of her ties, rough, gagging screams of terror rising muffled through the fabric in her mouth.

The open window beside her sucked at the flame, pulling it toward her.

Owen came around. He’d never broken stride. He slid into the shallow space that Jonathan had left in his small retreat. He stepped between the car and Jonathan with not a flicker of distress spared for the woman about to burn to death in front of them.

Carly was already halfway there. “No!”

She dropped the painting as she ran and it hit the ground, corner first, with a bright, splintering crack. The four-hundred-year-old Flinck disappeared in two distinct pieces into the tall grass.

Jonathan backed off another step, holding the knife out at Owen.

Owen gracefully sidestepped Carly rushing up, tearing at the door, screaming for Marcelline but calling her Emma.