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I don’t just lie there and talk either. I fight, but Cirillo has my arm in a hold, and I can tell my wrist is going to snap if I keep struggling. I’m still dazed from the blow to the head, and I keep eyeing that spade, knowing Shania will be quick to use it again. I also eye the steak knife five feet away on the concrete floor. They’re both ignoring that… for now. But it exists, and the knife I brought to defend myself could be used against me.

Maybe I shouldn’t care. Maybe I should fight like hell and take any risk to escape. But even as I see the look on Shania’s face, part of me whispers that I could be mistaken. Maybe she’s just scared, thinking I really did murder Brodie. Or angry, fearing I’ll escape justice.

What matters is that they are about to conjure a dangerous spirit. And yet somehow, while I’m aware of that, I cannot help worrying about Shania. I don’t want to hurt her, and in the end, while I do fight, I don’t fight enough, a fact I don’t fully comprehend until I’m bound and gagged and helpless… and they start trying to contact Brodie’s spirit.

Cirillo has brought his equipment downstairs. He’s set it all up and then arranged a séance setting using everything in this room that belongs to Brodie, including the young man’s mutilated corpse.

Cirillo doesn’t move the body. It’s still half outside the furnace, intestines dangling, and Cirillo has set up his séance materials around it. There’s an obscenity to the tableau that makes it look like a ritual sacrifice, and when I realize Cirillo’s just going to leave Brodie like that, I stare in horror.

They have a mutilated corpse hanging out of a furnace, and Cirillo has carefully arranged his séance shit around it, as if Brodie’s body is mere stage dressing.

Cirillo has left Anton’s belongings upstairs. But when Shania runs upstairs, she returns with the cremains box.

“You forgot this,” she says.

Cirillo frowns. “Why would we need that?”

Shania pauses, staring down at the box. “Oh, uh, right. Sorry.”

“Just put it aside,” Cirillo says with some impatience.

She nods and tucks the box just outside the furnace-room door. Then Cirillo beckons her over. They each kneel on one side of Brodie’s splayed legs, and I shout at them against my gag, unable to believe they can’t see what this looks like.

That is a young man’s body. Hismutilatedbody that they’re treating like a fuckingcenterpiece.

“Brodie Kilmer,” Cirillo says. “If you are still nearby, I invite you to join us.”

Cirillo pauses, and Shania glances over, but he ignores her and keeps his focus empty.

“Brodie,” he says. “I know what happened to you was…” Cirillo trails off, as if searching for words, and I clamp my jaw to keep from laughing hysterically into the gag.

I know what happened to you was bad.

Er, really bad?

Er, horribly bad?

“Terrible,” he says finally. “And also terrifying. I cannot begin to imagine the pain you endured. The pain and the shock. I am sorry for that, but—”

“But”? Really? How the hell can anyone with an ounce of compassion end that sentence with a “but”? This kid wasrippedopen. He lived long enough to see his insides, and I know that because—

Heather’s face flashes, and I start to shake.

Cirillo is still talking. “But I fear we need to speak to you. You want to find who did this, and so do we. Tell us who did this to you, Brodie. We are listening, and we will see justice done.”

Shania’s gaze flickers my way, the hate in her gaze chilling my blood.

Something must be wrong with her. That was the obvious answer to what seems like a complete transformation of character, but I realize this could just be her reaction to a betrayal. She trusted me, and I’ve turned out to be a vicious killer.

Is that what she believes?

I thought my dead husband might have killed Heather, didn’t I?

Did I? Or was I just protecting my heart and my pride by refusing to blind myself to a possibility?

Is that what Shania is doing?

“Brodie Kilmer,” Cirillo says. “If you are there—”