“He did it for money,” I say. “It was a business venture for him. My parents paid him. Every time he found out about something I’d done wrong, he’d tell them and they’d pay him more or less, depending on how serious it was, what I’d done.” Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it. “He used to write them all down in notebooks, with the date next to each one and how much he’d earned, always in pennies. He’d stick gold star stickers and draw smiley faces next to the particularly large amounts. I never suspected. I used to wonder how my parents managed to catch me out so often. I used to talk on the phone in front of Lee, when they were at work, when it was just me, Lee and the au pair of the moment. It never occurred to me that he’d tell. He was my little brother, just a sweet little boy. I loved him, and he loved me—I know he did. He wasn’t pretending. And then one day, I found these weird notebooks in his bedroom—he’d left them out by mistake. I asked him about it and he . . .” I break off. I’ve said enough. Tasker wanted a secret and I gave him one. The most agonizing secret of all.

“He what?” Tasker holds the scissors under my chin. Touches my neck. Cold metal. “He what, Nicki?”

“He told me. About being an informant for my parents. And he cried. Cried and cried and cried. I ended up having to comfort him. When I was a student, he sent me a check. No covering note. He didn’t need to explain. I knew what it was. All the money he’d earned from snitching on me. He wanted to settle the debt.”

“That’s a good stor—” Tasker stops. I feel his body tense on top of mine. “What’s that?” he says. “I heard something.”

I’m about to tell him I heard nothing when the door swings open with a metallic click. Two women stand in the doorway, with a man behind them. That’s . . . It’s Flash Dad, but with no streaks—with black cropped hair, like . . . Oh my God, like Mr. Uskalis, the boring man at reception earlier. They’re the same person. I was looking out for someone following me; I didn’t notice Uskalis because he rudely pushed in front of me. Clever.

I recognize one of the women too: Sergeant Zailer, from Spilling Police Station. She’s holding some handcuffs. Putting them on Tasker. She’s saying the best words I’ve ever heard: “Reuben Tasker, I’m arresting you for the murder of Damon Blundy . . .”