Chapter 14

"You're sure you know how to turn this on?" I asked.

Chester didn't answer immediately. The park was dark. The turbo lights had stopped spinning and flashing. The neon signs had been turned off. And in the shadows, it was impossible to read his expression. Above us, the sinuous iron spine of the Sea Snake was barely visible against the sky—a dark line scrawled against the backlit clouds.

"Chester," I prompted.

"I don't know what—"

"I just need you to turn it on. That's all. Can you do that?"

He'd been reluctant to talk to me when I'd shown up at his house unannounced (in the middle of the night). And even more reluctant to come with me. Beyond reluctant, actually. He'd looked exhausted, which I knew was one of the effects of spending a day being interviewed by law enforcement. And he'd been scared, which was another effect. I didn't blame him; I'd been in his position before, and it was scary. But I'd been persuasive enough to get him to accompany me this far. Now I needed to get him the rest of the way.

"Please, Chester. I promise that's all. Turn it on, and then you can leave. Get out of the park. Drive yourself back home. Go to bed."

"What about you?"

"I'm going to—what's the politest term you can think of for snooping?"

He seemed to consider this, and he slowly said, "But what if the killer is still here?" And then, with a trace of bitterness, "The real killer, I mean."

"That's why you're doing this." I'd brought a crowbar with me, and I turned it in one hand, the metal cold and hard beneath my glove. "The real killer is still here. And he's got eyes everywhere. So, I need you to give him something to look at while I find the evidence that's going to clear you."

"Dash, these rides are dangerous. I can't leave it running."

"The park is closed. Nobody's here. Turn it on and then go. I'm not joking; you need to get out of here as fast as you can."

"What about you? You should have some backup."

"I'll be fine." I tried to swallow my rising frustration. "You trusted me enough to come this far. Please trust me now."

I thought his silence was going to be his answer, but then, to my surprise, he spoke, and his voice had a kind of dry amusement. "I didn't come because I trusted you. I came because you told my dad it was a ‘pop-up date,' which isn't even a thing, and when I said no, he said I either had to go or get kicked out of the house."

"Okay, first of all, pop-up dates are a thing, because I invented them right now, and second of all, this is the rudest of the rude because you should be thrilled to go on a pop-up date with me."

His laugh was breathy and nervous, but it was a laugh.

"Just turn it on—" I began.

"And get out of the park. I know." He nodded, the movement barely visible in the dark. "But I still think you need someone to watch your back."

"Thanks," I said, "but I can take care of myself."

"The most confusing part is that you genuinely seem to believe that."

I chose not to respond.

I hurried away from the Sea Snake as Chester went to work. At first, in the silence, my footsteps sounded too loud as I jogged along the darkened pathways. The world had that strangely deep ultra-stillness of the small hours—it was almost three in the morning, although it didn't feel that late (but that was probably because I was buzzing with adrenaline). Ahead of me, a park employee had untied one side of a Sweethearts Festival banner, and it drooped across the path. The vinyl rustled and shifted, dragged this way and that when the wind picked up. Tomorrow, the staff would be back to finish the job. The Sweethearts Festival was over, and they'd spend a day or two shutting the park down before it opened again for the summer months. Packing things up. Conducting routine maintenance. Cleaning.

Which was why it had to be tonight.

Then, behind me, the Sea Snake exploded into light and sound.

Even though I'd been expecting it, I still had a small heart attack. There's nothing quite like having the darkness and silence shattered to get the blood flowing.

I picked up the pace, pursued by the dinging bells and upbeat music of the Sea Snake. My first stop was Davy Jones' Locker. I was ninety percent sure that what I was looking for wasn't going to be here, but I didn't want to leave anything to chance. When I got to the fun house, it was nothing more than a shadowy bulk. I used the crowbar to force the door open—which, I discovered a moment later, hadn't been my best plan. My brute strength had splintered the jamb, and now the door wouldn't latch.

A problem for future Dash, I decided.

Using the flashlight I'd brought with me, I did a quick search. My footsteps rang out in the empty house, and as I moved deeper into the maze of rooms, the music of the Sea Snake faded. It didn't take me long to verify what I'd already suspected: what I was looking for wasn't here.

I left the fun house and shut the door as best as I could, wincing at the squeak of hinges. The door wouldn't stay closed, but again, that was for future Dash to worry about.

I followed the path I'd taken earlier that night and came again to the Treasure Chest. It seemed impossible that I'd been here only hours before; exhaustion and the unreal quality of being awake, alone, with nothing for company but the distant screeching and hissing of a mechanical snake-themed roller coaster, made it seem like finding Dagan's body had happened to someone else.

I made my way around the building until I reached the portrait studio. I let myself in again with Chester's keys and made my way through the dark, into the office, and then through the connecting door that led me into the Treasure Chest proper. This time, though, I turned away from the lobby and moved toward the backstage area. I knew I was going the right way when the pirate-themed décor disappeared, the carpet transitioned to serviceable linoleum, and I started coming across signs that said EMPLOYEES ONLY and NO GUESTS BEYOND THIS POINT. I went slowly, aware of the sticky sounds of my sneakers, using my flashlight to read the little plaque by each door.

I stopped when I found WARDROBE.

Cue brute strength and, more importantly, crowbar.

(Hey, at least I managed not to break the jamb.)

The room was larger than I expected. Colder, too. I played the light around, trying to get an impression of the place. Ironing boards. Worktables. Storage lockers. And, of course, clothing racks, shelves full of accessories, garment bags draped over vanity counters. The beam of my flashlight bounced off mirrors and showed my shadowy shape in the doorway. The place smelled like spray starch and sweat, a combination that probably wouldn't ever make it as an air freshener.

It only took me a few minutes to be sure that what I wanted wasn't here. I hadn't expected it to be—there was too much risk here. But, on the other side of the room, I found a door marked STORAGE, and guess what? My special key worked just fine on this one too.

The next room was clearly much bigger; even before I shone the flashlight, I could tell by the sounds that came back to me—the hint of my movement echoing back from a large, empty space. I moved into the dark, sweeping the flashlight back and forth. This area was clearly an addition—a warehouse with metal walls and a metal roof. Every sound I made whispered back to me; this was probably what it would feel like to live inside a maraca. Racks and racks of clothing filled the space. All the costumes from all the seasons of productions at the Treasure Chest. And, of course, all the costumes for the park employees.

I spotted the fire door at the back and made my way toward it, following an aisle between the racks of clothing. It was like one long, horrible march toward Narnia, only with a lot more synthetics. (I guessed the professor had only used natural fabrics. Come to think of it, I was pretty sure the Narnia animals would have had some hard feelings toward the professor if they'd known how much fur he owned.)

When I reached the back of the warehouse, I started checking each rack. The costumes here were the ones that must have been rarely or never used. It was kind of fun, guessing which show they had belonged to. Pirates of Penzance, that was a gimme. And a Mary Martin-era Peter Pan. Even a full set for The Swiss Family Robinson (lots of plunging necklines for the boys, confusingly).

And then, mixed in with all of those old theater costumes, I found them. Mascot costumes. One was a pirate. One was a lobster. And one was a shark. They'd been wedged between a series of puffy-sleeved blouses that must have been used in a truly terrible production. While the mascot costumes weren't quite invisible—I mean, you couldn't help but notice that they weren't, like everything around them, puffy-sleeved blouses—it would have been easy to miss them. I wasn't sure if the killer had consciously tried to hide them. I didn't think so; if the killer had suspected that the costumes might be incriminating, it would have been a simple matter to destroy them. No, I guessed that the costumes were back here simply as a matter of expedience. And, of course, as a side effect of being rushed—it wouldn't have been easy, trying to slip in and out without anyone noticing while carrying a full mascot costume. Which was why the killer had used the warehouse's rear entrance. And, therefore, why the mascot costumes were all the way in the back.

I started by inspecting each head, which had been tossed under the rack. The fabric rustled softly as I picked up each one. I didn't like those great, cartoonish eyes staring up at me, and I really didn't like how the shadows jumped and twisted when I moved the flashlight. I didn't see anything inside the pirate head. And whoever had worn the lobster head had a serious case of dandruff, which might or might not be criminal. But inside the shark head, several dark splotches—blackish red, the color of a dead rose—marred the lining. Dark, brittle-looking hairs were trapped in the dried blood. I took out my phone. I didn't exactly have unlimited time, but I figured Tyler would be busy dealing with the Sea Snake—

A hanger chimed on a rod, and I spun around.

About halfway down the warehouse, one aisle over, a familiar chocolate-brown bob was barely visible above the intervening racks.

For a moment, all I could do was stare at Lyndsey.

She stared back at me.

She wasn't dead.

Her body hadn't mysteriously disappeared.

She was, apparently, alive and well—and right then, she sprinted toward me.

The crowbar fell from my hand and clanged against the concrete slab. The sound jarred me back to myself, and I tucked the shark head under my arm and ran.

The warehouse's fire door was only a few feet away. I caught the crash bar with my hip and barreled out into the night. A narrow alley ran between the warehouse and the park's chain-link fence. Perhaps a hundred yards away, the pale wash of security lights revealed one of the park's main pathways. I sprinted toward it.

The slap of my sneakers ricocheted back from the steel walls of the warehouse. I'd only covered half the length of the alley when the warehouse door crashed open behind me. Lyndsey let out a wordless shout, and then gunfire split the night open. The clap of the shot was followed instantly by a spray of sparks where the bullet struck the warehouse. The stink of gunpowder rolled over me.

When I reached the corner, I jinked to the right. At the same time, Lyndsey fired again. The hard crack of the gun swallowed up every other noise for a moment. I didn't see sparks this time, and a confused voice in my brain wondered if that was because Lyndsey's aim had been true. I didn't feel anything, but maybe that was because of the adrenaline. Or because of shock. Or maybe, somehow, I'd been lucky again.

Since my body seemed to still be working, I kept running. As the thunder of gunfire faded, Lyndsey's screams sounded closer. A quick glance back told me I wasn't imagining it: she was maybe thirty yards behind me and closing.

Listen: I know I'm not the most athletic guy in the world.

In the state.

In Hastings Rock.

Okay, I wasn't even the most athletic guy in my house. (It probably went something like this: Bobby, Keme, Indira—scarily fit—Millie, Fox, me. Or maybe Fox, then that really muscular statue in the billiard room, and then me.)

But I wasn't in bad shape. I mean, I wasn't in terrible shape. I was young. Ish. And I was highly motivated not to get shot.

So it was really. freaking. annoying. that Lyndsey was only twenty yards behind me now and didn't show any signs of slowing down. I mean, she hadn't looked like she was in good shape, but apparently, she was even more motivated than I was. Maybe, if I had enough time, her burst of energy would wear off, and I'd be able to leave her behind. The only problem was that she had a gun. All she had to do was get close enough for one good shot—

The gun barked again behind me. Metal clanged. To my left, the sign for a funnel cake stand spun wildly.

No, I definitely didn't have enough time to wear her down.

A familiar roofline rose above the rest of the park: Davy Jones' Locker. I cut right, darting between a gift shop and a restroom. The narrow space magnified the sound of my panting breaths. A moment later, the fun house stood in front of me: dark and still, barely more than a shadow. I thought about screaming for help, but no one would hear me over the distant music of the Sea Snake. The same way no one would notice the muzzle flash of Lyndsey's shots—not with the whirring turbo lights of the roller coaster drawing everyone's attention.

Please, God, I thought. Please don't let an overzealous security guard have secured the door.

I hurdled up the steps, threw the door open, and flew into the darkness. And it was dark. Pitch black, almost, with only the faint, ambient light that filtered in through the doorway to see by. There were no windows in the fun house. And with everything powered down, there were no spooky lights, no fog machine, no glowing skeletons. There was no circus music to mask the drumming of my steps as I sprinted deeper into the house.

When the gravity-tilt floor rocked underfoot, I rolled my ankle and almost fell. The pain was so sharp that for a moment, I thought I'd broken something. I hit the wall with my shoulder and somehow managed to stay upright. My blood pounded in my ears. Adrenaline pushed me forward, but on my next step, pain lanced up my leg, and I bit back another cry. I tried another step. The pain roared back at me. I stayed upright, but running was out of the question. Still, maybe I had enough of a lead to find somewhere to hide.

As I hobbled forward, though, floorboards creaked at the front of the house.

"Mr. Dane?" I recognized Lyndsey's voice, even though I'd only ever heard her speak once. "Are you all right? It sounded like you hurt yourself."

I limped toward the doorway at the other end of the gravity-tilt room, careful not to let the floor rock under me again. My breaths came in tight, controlled bursts.

"I'm afraid this has been a huge misunderstanding," Lyndsey continued. Her voice still sounded like it came from the front of the house, but it was moving closer. "I thought you were an intruder."

You knew my name, I thought as I eased my weight into the next room, but you kept shooting.

It was like Lyndsey was reading my thoughts. She laughed, the sound low and amused, and said, "Shoot. I guess I shouldn't have said, ‘Mr. Dane.' Well, it was a long shot anyway."

The next room had the dropping floor, and I lost precious seconds testing it. With the fun house powered down, I didn't think the floor would move—but the last thing I needed was to jar my bad ankle. After another waffling moment, I started shuffling forward again.

"What gave it away?" Lyndsey asked. When I didn't answer, she added in a plaintive voice, "Don't be like that. Show me how smart you are. Tell me what you figured out. And then tell me what it's going to cost to make this all go away."

As I moved deeper into the house, the weak light that had filtered in from the park faded until I moved through total darkness. In the next room, I bumped something—a table, I thought. It caught my hip, and I said a couple of words that the pirates of old probably would have approved of.

"Everything all right?" Lyndsey asked. Definitely closer.

"Fine," I snapped, but I was thinking some more of those pirate words.

"Mr. Dane, this doesn't have to be a big deal. We can work something out. Nothing happened here. No one can ever prove anything happened. As far as the sheriff's concerned, there hasn't even been a crime. I'll destroy the costumes. I should have thought of that sooner, but in my defense, that was Dagan's idea, and he was an idiot. And then everyone can go back to their lives. What's it going to cost for all of us to go back to living our lives?"

It was a nice try, I thought. I adjusted the shark head under my arm as I shuffled forward. I swept my other hand back and forth, checking for obstacles—I still had the flashlight, but that would have made me a perfect target for Lyndsey. My progress was painfully slow. If I could get upstairs, I could barricade myself behind the secret passage in the fireplace and call for help. But I needed to buy myself some time.

"What's your real name?" I asked.

Silence. Then a whisper that might have been a footfall.

"I know you're not Lyndsey Zeimantz," I said. Ahead of me, I sensed an opening—a doorway, I hoped. "Not the real Lyndsey, I mean. The real Lyndsey is dead. Dagan—"

"Dagan killed her," Lyndsey broke in. "Because he's an idiot."

"He killed her because she came back from wherever she's been all these years, and she wanted—"

"She wanted everything. The park. The house. She wanted all of it."

"Okay, well, you asked me to explain—"

"She was insane. She'd been gone for decades. She didn't exist anymore, that's what she didn't understand. She wasn't a real person. I told Dagan she was already dead. If we'd wanted to, we could have had her declared legally dead years ago."

"She wasn't dead, though. She was alive. And she—"

"She came back." Lyndsey hissed in frustration. "And do you know the worst bit? She didn't care about any of it. She never had. She never wanted to live here. She never wanted to run the park. All those years in Africa, all her projects and NGOs, all the years we sent her money for her stupid nonprofits—money that we could have been using for the park. She was happy enough for a while. We were doing her a favor. She didn't hesitate when I said I needed a copy of her birth certificate. When I needed her Social Security card. Whatever I needed, she gave it to me because the alternative was having to deal with the real world herself. All she wanted to do was live her little fairy tale."

"When you moved here with Dagan," I said, "everyone—"

"Believed me! They didn't even bat an eye."

"If I could finish, like, one sentence." But that was when I bumped into the flying parrot, and I had to swallow a scream.

By the time the flash of terror faded, I'd missed some of Lyndsey's words.

"—looked like her. Everyone said we looked like sisters, even though we were only cousins. Every time she came to visit. And then she didn't want to live out here anymore, and she moved out east to live with us, and it was like we were sisters. She told me about everyone back home. I knew their names. I knew their families. I knew the park employees best, of course." Her voice took on a strange defensiveness. "It was Dagan's idea, you know. Lyndsey had been gone for so long. Letters kept arriving from lawyers. Probate. The estate. It had been years since her father died, and Lyndsey still didn't want to have anything to do with any of it. And then Dagan said we should do it for her. He was the one who convinced her. The money could help, right? Help her. Help all those kids in Africa. And help us, too. You should have heard her when he suggested she fly back so we could arrange all the paperwork. She practically begged me to pretend to be her. We were doing her a favor, see?"

Sure, I thought as my hand found the edge of the doorway. I limped through it and found myself at the base of the moving stairs. You were doing her a favor right up until you bashed her head in.

It was still hard to believe that Lyndsey and Dagan had carried off the impersonation so successfully. But then, I hadn't counted on the real Lyndsey being part of the fraud. If she had supplied all the relevant paperwork, it wouldn't have been difficult for the fake Lyndsey—whatever her real name was—to carry it off. The two women looked enough alike, and it had been a long time since anyone in Hastings Rock had seen the real Lyndsey. She'd been a teenager when she left. It was only natural that when she returned all those years later, a grown woman, she would look different.

"Until she wanted more," I said. "Let me guess: she was going to—"

"To sell everything," Lyndsey cut in.

"Right, but it's my turn now—"

"The house. The park. She even wanted to sell the cars, and I tried to explain that we bought the cars. We bought them with our money. She didn't care. If it was in her name, she wanted to sell it. She had a vision, she said. She had a dream." Disbelief marred the words. "She was going to build schools. I mean, schools ."

I dragged myself up onto the first step. It meant putting more weight on my injured ankle, and pain bloomed in my vision: big, black clouds of it. I slumped against the banister, trying not to pass out. When I came back, Lyndsey was talking, and her voice was even closer.

"—right in the office. I wasn't there, or things never would have escalated so far. We told her not to come to the park. We told her that could cause a lot of problems. But she knew we'd been dodging her, and she wanted that money. Dagan said she was already worked up by the time she got to the office. Angry. She couldn't stop talking about how she'd had to pay money to get into her own park. That was all she cared about, money. That's a bad way to live."

Which was definitely a pot-and-kettle situation if I'd ever heard one.

"Dagan freaked out. He was sure somebody was going to recognize her. I told him that was stupid; she didn't take care of herself. She looked a lot older than me by then—I mean, sun damage is real. So, there she was, standing in his office. They argued. And things got…out of control."

The slight hiccup was the only giveaway. It was like listening to someone edit in real time—a pause, scrubbing out the ugly bits, and then rolling forward with only the faintest trace of a disturbance. And if she caught up with me, no matter what she promised, I knew I was going to be another of those little hiccups. She might promise to talk. She might promise we could work things out. And then things would get…out of control, and I'd disappear just like the others.

Climbing the stairs on my bad ankle was clearly not going to work, so I started to crawl. It was even slower than walking, but at least I didn't feel like I was going to black out. The carpet felt cheap and rough under my hands. The stairs were uneven—frozen mid-shift when the fun house had been shut off. Soft steps came from the room behind me.

"She tried to run away," I said, "but Dagan—"

"Wouldn't let her. No, by that point, he was too frightened. He was sure if she left, someone would see her and start to ask questions. And even if someone didn't recognize her, she'd eventually get a lawyer, try to claim the park belonged to her. I told Dagan it wasn't a sure thing. I mean, we had the paperwork. We'd been living here for decades. But he thought someone would believe her."

"Someone like Tyler," I said. "Someone with a grudge. So, he went after her—"

"I don't know why she came in here," Lyndsey said. "Maybe she thought she could get away." And then she paused.

Neither of us said it, but I could hear it in the air: like you .

With forced cheeriness, Lyndsey continued, "It was bad luck that you found her. Dagan was only gone for a few minutes; he knew he had to get rid of her. I told him later that he should have moved her backstage right away, but I can't blame him. He was in shock. You don't know how hard he took it."

I had to fight down a giggle. Lyndsey honestly seemed to expect me to feel bad for Dagan, and the realization was so surreal that I almost lost control as I dragged myself the rest of the way up the steps.

"Now, I have to give Dagan credit. Most days, the man didn't have enough brains to find the bottom of a paper bag, but he was quick on his feet that day. He heard you raising a ruckus, and he knew he had to get her out of there before Tyler showed up—or God help us, the sheriff. He couldn't have anybody see her—not only because she was dead, you know, but because someone might recognize her. That man didn't have a lot of good ideas, but he came through in a pinch."

I dragged myself onto the landing at the top of the stairs. I could feel my earlier surge of adrenaline fading; pain was rushing in, and behind it, exhaustion. Even in the dark, I caught a sense of movement. Panic sparked, and then I remembered the mirrors. It was too dark for me to see the reflections, but there was enough ambient light that the suggestion of movement was there. I tried to get myself upright, but my ankle was starting to stiffen, and it wouldn't bear any weight. And then, from the bottom of the stairs came Lyndsey's voice.

"There you are."

I dropped.

The gun fired.

Plaster exploded overhead. Chunks of it thudded to the floor as finer particles sifted down.

Guess what? I got a nice little spurt of adrenaline and started to crawl.

As I did, I shouted back, hoping she'd start talking again, "He put her in the shark costume and sent her down the zipline."

Lyndsey laughed. "Isn't that a hoot? I mean, everybody saw her go by. Everybody. She went right down the zip, and nobody looked twice. If they did—if they saw her slumped over, or something like that—they must have thought she was just a dumb teenager messing around. And Dagan walked right out of the fun house. Nobody noticed him—he's in and out all over the park, always roaming around, sticking his nose in."

And that much, I knew, was the truth. I'd seen him doing exactly that when he'd given me my "tour."

"He got her down, put her on a golf cart with a couple of extra costumes, and got her out of there. All anybody saw was Dagan moving a bunch of old costumes around."

"Where is she now?"

Lyndsey's only answer was the creak of a tread as she came up the stairs. She was so much closer than I'd expected. In the dark, I couldn't tell how far the bedroom—and, more importantly, the secret passage—were, but I knew they were too far for me to reach before she got to the top of the stairs. I cast a frantic look around the hall. Around me came that blur of movement—the hint of dozens of reflections copying my movement.

I had an idea.

It was a bad idea.

In fact, it was a terrible idea.

But it was my only idea, and I had run out of options.

"When did you decide to fake your own death?" I asked as I dragged myself toward the closest mirror (at least, I hoped it was the right direction in the dark). "Was Dagan going to turn on you?"

"Turn on me." She scoffed, and another tread creaked. "Dagan loved me. But he was freaking out. You'd seen Lyndsey. When you saw me, you put two and two together. You weren't going to give up. He got jumpy. He wasn't sleeping. The man was a wreck. I told him it was all going to blow over, but he couldn't leave well enough alone. He got up in the middle of the night when he remembered all those staff photos in the portrait studio. Tried to make it look like a break-in. I told him people are going to get more suspicious if there's a break-in. I tried to tell him he was making things worse, but he couldn't stop. Then, last night, he remembered Lyndsey had been in some of those cast photos in the theater. He about had a panic attack. What if someone sees them, that kind of thing. What are they going to see, I asked him. But he wasn't thinking straight anymore." Another of those little edits happened; it was barely more than a click in her throat. "That's when I realized it was going to be better for everyone this way."

And that, I decided, told me everything I needed to know about the woman who called herself Lyndsey Zeimantz.

"Once I knew I wasn't going to be able to stay, it was all simple. I was going to have to disappear. You made it easy—wandering all over creation, talking to the employees, getting Jessica on the walkie. As soon as I knew you were here, I knew you were going to take another look at Davy Jones'. I was slow, though. You were already poking around in the bedroom by the time I got there, and let me tell you, I had to scramble to get into position."

"And I found you, just like you wanted. Then, when my back was turned, you pushed me down the shaft."

"I thought at least you'd break your leg, but you're like a cat. Didn't matter, though. You'd seen me, and you did exactly what I wanted: told the sheriff I was dead and my body was mysteriously gone. Boy, I wish I could have seen Dagan's face."

The memory flashed in front of me: Dagan's panic outside the fun house. I hadn't understood it at the time, but now I did. He'd killed the real Lyndsey, and it must have been terrifying not to know who had "killed" his wife and made her disappear.

Lyndsey kept talking. "Then I made Dagan disappear. I figured the sheriff needed somebody to blame, and Jessica did kill all those people at that park in Wyoming. She's only getting what's coming to her; it's a bit late, is all. Had to improvise when you showed up, but we were already in the theater, so I made it work. All those costumes lying around. Talk about luck." I couldn't see her in the dark, but I heard the creak when she reached the top of the stairs. There was a grin in her voice when she added, "I almost got you, though, didn't I?"

So much for we can work this out .

Before I had time to respond, though, she fired the gun. The muzzle flash painted everything in a moment of light. A mirror exploded. The dark dropped again. I threw myself to one side.

"Come out," she sang, and she sounded a little like the park's old animatronics—scratchy, unbelievably artificial. Then her voice snapped down a register: "Come out right now! If it weren't for you and Tyler, I'd already be in Venezuela."

"He figured it out, didn't he," I said. "When you faked your own death. I could tell he knew something."

"Once you blabbed about finding Lyndsey, it was like he was obsessed. He spent every minute searching the park, thinking he was going to find her. I honestly think he figured it out; he just didn't know how to prove it."

"That was why he was late. He was trying to find her body."

"He's always been a pain in the keister. Like you—I knew you wouldn't take the bait with Jessica. I knew you wouldn't leave things alone." Her shout was harsh, almost raspy. "You ruined everything!"

Slowly, I rose out of my crouch. It accomplished what I wanted: that rippling blur of movement crossed the other mirrors. As Lyndsey swung around wildly, I flattened myself to the floor again. Another shot cracked the air. The muzzle flash strobed the hallway. I was painfully aware that for a moment, I was visible. When that lightning strike illumination vanished, I scrambled away on the carpet, ignoring as best I could my screaming ankle.

Lyndsey was laughing, and that wind-up doll voice came again. "I see you," she crooned. The stink of gunpowder filled the air. I thought I could feel the particulates, raspy against the sensitive lining of my nose and mouth and esophagus.

Another mirror, I thought. How many cartridges could she have left? Was it a revolver? No, the odds of that seemed low. A semiautomatic, then. This was table talk with my parents. Nine rounds? Sixteen? Another of those near-hysterical giggles tried to work its way up inside me. I didn't think I could keep this up for another sixteen rounds. For one thing, I didn't have enough mirrors.

"Stand up," Lyndsey barked, and it sounded like she was directing the words at me. "Stand up right now!"

I chose not to reply. Discretion and valor and all that.

She let out a wordless shout, and the gun clapped again. The mirror above me shattered. Shards of glass tumbled down. They fell into my hair. They pattered against my jacket. A few sliced the back of my neck and hands. They registered as little lines of heat.

"Stand up!" she shouted. "Or the next one is for you. Stand up, and give me that mascot head, and then—" She actually sucked in a breath and let out a weird noise it took me a moment to process as a giggle. Like this was all a game. "And then I'll let you go."

I was starting to suspect that, to borrow another Fox-ism, Lyndsey's biscuits weren't quite baked. I also realized I had no idea where the shark head had gone—I'd forgotten about it as soon as the shooting started.

"Get up," she said, and there was no mistaking it—she was talking to me. Looking at me. "Right. Now."

There was probably something smart or clever or brave I was supposed to do, but I couldn't think of anything. My head felt empty. My body was like the skin of a drum, stretched so tight that when an eddy of air brushed me, I felt myself vibrate. I wasn't going to see Bobby again. That made me sadder than anything else. I wasn't going to get to tell him goodbye.

And then a voice called out, growing louder as the speaker sprinted up the stairs. "Get away from him!" Chester was barely a shadow, rising into view as he reached the landing. "I already called the sheriff, so just get away—"

Lyndsey spun. In the dark, it was only a shift of shadows, but then she fired. The muzzle flash painted everything in red-gold light: Chester's face frozen in shock; Lyndsey's backlit face twisted in rage. And then the muzzle flash was gone as quickly as it came, and the darkness was complete. Chester let out a noise that was part surprise and part pain. And then I heard a thump, and then another, as he fell down the stairs.

I was already on my feet, though, sprinting toward Lyndsey. I barreled into her, and we both went crashing to the floor. She twisted under me, and I grappled blindly in the dark, trying to find her arms. And then I had her. I pinned her down, and no matter how she moved, she couldn't get free. I gulped air, but I couldn't get enough, and as adrenaline surged up inside me again, I thought I was going to be sick or pass out or both.

"Chester?" I called. "Chester!"

When he answered, his voice was dazed. "She shot me."

Lyndsey thrashed and growled under me.

"It's okay," I said. "You're going to be okay."

A voice from the front of the fun house shouted, "Sheriff's Office."

Relief made my eyes sting, but somehow I managed to answer, "Back here!"