“Because you’ve got no choice. Kill me, and you go to jail, and leave that lad of yours without a mammy. You cannae even have me arrested because I’ll tell them about Callum.”

I look at Fiona. Her face is utterly still. “Tell them what?” I ask. “Fiona, what will he tell them?”

Jamie starts to laugh, his teeth scarlet where the candlelight touches and black otherwise. “I’ll tell them Callum isnae yours.”

“Don’t be . . .” I start, but I trail off as I catch sight of Fiona’s face. He isn’t being ridiculous, I realize. He’s not being ridiculous at all. I can’t even begin to process that right now. “We can’t let him free,” I say urgently to Fiona. “He’s just trying to play you.”

“Of course he is,” she says, her eyes still on Jamie. Her jaw is set. “He’s always played me. I’m never able to defend myself—how can you defend yourself when you cannae sequence events? Who would believe me in a trial? He’s always played me. I’m done with it.”

Jamie’s smile fades. He spits again, another scarlet-streaked stream of saliva. “So. You’re willing to lose Callum.”

“Ailsa, go check if Carrie has any news on Callum.” I look uncertainly from one to the other. Their eyes are locked. She glances at me when I don’t move. “Please?”

“Okay.” I turn for the door, but something isn’t right; I can feel something isn’t right, as if I’ve been here before and I know that something’s coming, something bad . . . I get through the hallway and put one hand on the staircase banister, and then I hear a faint shout and a hard thwack, and I have to turn back. I walk as soundlessly as I can. Through the half-open door I can see Fiona crouched over the prone figure, doing something to his hand. I reach the doorway in time to see her move toward his head, a flash of silver in her own hand, and then . . .

“Fiona!” I gasp, but it’s too late. She has stabbed into his neck. A pool of blood flows out unevenly as I watch.

She looks up at me. Her hand is black with blood from the knife. “He got free and knocked the gun away from me,” she says. “He was going ballistic.” I’m leaning against the doorframe, too stunned to move. “He had a knife,” she adds, gesturing at his hand. A silver steak knife is in it. The twine I tied is still looped round his wrist, but it’s been cut through. “Look. There.”