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His friends stared at him, stupid and stricken with horror.

“Out. Now. Don’t touch anything. Don’t move anything.”

Pulling himself together, Ellery moved toward them, gesturing toward the doors.

“Come on, gang,” Freddie began to back up. “It looks like this is a crime scene.”

Lenny cried, “Edwin Dolph is in the house!”

Ellery went rigid. Lenny was right. Why hadn’t that occurred to him?

But even as the thought occurred, he was questioning it. Even if Dolph had made it to land, he’d almost certainly havedied of exposure. Besides, Watson knew when a squirrel was inside the walls. How could he possibly not know a stranger was hiding in the house?

“We don’t know that.”

“Ofcourse,it was Dolph,” Tosh protested. “What are you saying?”

Whatwashe saying? And how dumb was he that he was saying it aloud?

“No, you’re right,” he said quickly. As frightening as that thought was, he really wanted to believe Chelsea had been killed by Edwin Dolph—versus the alternative.

But would Dolph, knowing there was a whole house full of people to contend with, leave the hatchet behind?

The image of what he’d just glimpsed in the passageway flashed into his mind. A wave of nausea rose in Ellery’s throat. He was saved, not by masculine pride, but by the recollection of how expensive it had been to get these antique rugs cleaned.

“Out,” he repeated weakly, and everyone filed into the hallway.

“What are we going to do?” Lenny looked terrified. Granted, they all looked varying degrees of shocked and scared. It was the normal reaction.

“You’re going to stay together right here. Nobody goes anywhere. I’m going to call Jack and get directions on what to do about...”

Everything, frankly.

Tosh, Oscar, Flip, Lenny, and Freddie stared at him blankly.

And then there were five...

Well, actually six.

Seven, counting Watson.

And possibly, though he was doubting it more and more with each passing minute, eight.

It seemed unlikely.

As much as he did not want to believe it, it felt more and more likely that one ofthem...

“Wait right here. Watson,stay,” Ellery ordered, and stepped back inside the library closing the doors firmly behind him.

Watson immediately began to scratch at the doors, ignoring the chorus of, “Come on, puppy! Come on, sweet doggie!”

Ellery moved away from the doors. Warily watching the entrance to the passage, he pulled his phone out, pressing Jack’s number as he walked slowly toward the opening.

“Carson,” Jack snapped on the first ring. Up and about at three in the morning? No wonder he was curt. Jack’s tone changed. “Oh.Sorry. What’s going on?”

“Something...” Ellery’s voice shook. Something to do with the relief of managing to reach Jack so quickly? Or was it just the sound of Jack’s voice? He got control fast. “...really awful happened. Chelsea’s dead.”

“Dead?Are you okay? Is anyone else—”