“Actually, your name is Lyra, isn’t it?” Elite Cain asks, pressing something on the screen in front of him. A hologram pops up at the center of the table, projecting from a tiny box. There, a photo from my previous school appears. “You started going by your middle name when you moved here. Is that because you were on the run, Eurydice?”

“I started going by my middle name for anonymity,” I say, trying to keep my voice as even as possible. It’s hard not to betray how angry I am, how hostile I wish to be, with Roth’s gaze searing into me. “There were a lot of rumors I was involved in Chase’s death at my school. None could be proven, but people still talk. Mom didn’t want that to follow me here.”

I emphasize Mom. I want these people to know I have someone waiting for me at home.

“Would those rumors happen to have any truth, Eurydice?”

“You tell me what the evidence says.”

The elites around the table exchange glances. I can guess a few words they might use to describe me: know-it-all, stubborn, entitled, but I don’t care. I wasn’t born in their world, I was forced into it, and Chase Lockwood started the whole thing.

“This is what makes her dangerous!” Elite Ezekiel exclaims. “It’s possible more have died by her hand and we have no way of knowing! She should be kept under constant supervision, the thread contained!”

My heart seizes. Contained? Do they mean to make me wear this claw forever? They can’t!

“At what cost?” another elite says. “Charon has already dissolved the gates. He has hellhounds pacing outside our walls, apparently assigned to protect the Eurydice. His orders are clear: we support the Eurydice, not imprison her.”

“Someone has to think about the souls!” Elite Ezekiel argues. “Charon won’t summon the gates for one hundred and fifty dead in a plane crash, and this girl has taken life!”

“That has yet to be proven,” Elite Cain reminds them.

Suddenly, all eyes are on me again.

“Eurydice,” Elite Gwen says. “If Lockwood attacked you, we need to hear it.”

I recognize this tactic, know she is playing good cop, and yet I cave, swearing to God or Charon or whoever in the hell is responsible for life on earth that I will never tell this story again.

I begin the same way I began when I told Shy and the others, except I use more details. Use the words he used to lead me into his snare—beautiful and toxic and breathtaking. I tell of warm kisses and heated touches that spun me in silk. I tell of the cold press of his blade that drew blood and tarnished his web forever.

“I used the only weapon I had,” I say. “The thread.”