You know how this will end. You are the bard telling this tale. You are the alchemist, pulling the pattern apart.

But for now, all that matters is the blade and the steady rise and fall of your chest and the knowledge that everything you’ve worked for will come to pass.

Starting with number five.

The FBI staked out the Grand Ballroom. For those of us who weren’t licensed to participate in stakeouts, the day quickly devolved into a waiting game. The afternoon bled slowly into evening. The darker it got, the brighter the lights outside our marked-red window seemed to grow, and the harder my heart beat in my chest.

January first. January second. January third. January fourth. I kept thinking, over and over again, that today was the fifth. Four bodies in four days. Next comes number five. That’s how you think of them, isn’t it? Not as people. As numbers. Things to be quantified. A part of your equation.

My mind went to the photo I’d seen in my mother’s file of a skeleton wrapped carefully in a royal blue shawl. Dean had read remorse into the way the body had been buried. I couldn’t help seeing the contrast.

You don’t feel remorse. I made myself focus on the Vegas killer. That, I could handle. That, I could do. Why would you? There are billions of people in the world, and you’ve killed such a very small percentage of them. One, two, three, four—

“Okay, that’s it.” Lia exited her bedroom, took one look at the rest of us, and flounced into the kitchen. I heard her bang open the freezer. A few seconds later, she was back. She tossed something at Michael. “Frozen washcloth,” she told him. “Put it on your eye and stop with the brooding, because I think we all know that Dean has that market cornered.”

Lia didn’t wait to see if Michael followed her instructions before she turned to her next target. “Dean,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. “I’m pregnant.”

Dean’s eyelid twitched. “No, you’re not.”

“Who’s to say, really?” Lia countered. “The point is that sitting here waiting for the phone to ring and mentally going over worst-case scenarios isn’t helping anybody.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” I asked.

Lia hit a switch and a blackout screen slowly covered the wall of windows—and Sloane’s writing. Sloane let out an indignant squeak, but Lia preempted any actual complaint.

“What I suggest,” Lia said, “is that we spend the next three hours and twenty-seven minutes doing our best impressions of actual teenagers.” She flopped down on the couch between Dean and me. “Who wants to play Two Truths and a Lie?”

“I have been kicked out of no fewer than four boarding schools.” Michael wiggled his eyebrows, his tone giving no hint whatsoever as to whether or not what he was saying was true. “My favorite movie is Homeward Bound.”

Isn’t that the one with the lost pets trying to find their way home? I thought.

“And,” Michael finished elaborately, “I’m thoroughly considering going into Redding’s room tonight while he’s sleeping and shaving my initials into his head.”

Three statements. Two of them were true. One was a lie.

“Number three,” Dean said darkly. “The lie is number three.”

Michael couldn’t quite manage a roguish smile with a fat lip, but he made his best attempt.

Lia, who was sprawled on her stomach on the carpet, propped herself up on her elbows. “How many boarding schools have you gotten kicked out of?” she asked.

Michael gave Dean a moment to process the fact that the deception detector had zeroed in on his first statement as the lie. “Three,” he told Lia.

“Slacker,” she opined.

“It’s not my fault Sterling and Briggs haven’t kicked me out yet.” Michael ran a thumb along the edge of his split lip, an odd sheen in his eyes. “Clearly, I’m a liability. They’re smart people. Expulsion number four is only a matter of time.”

Better to make someone reject you, I thought, understanding more than I wanted to, than to let them do it on their own.

“Homeward Bound?” Dean gave Michael a look. “Really?”

“What can I say?” Michael replied. “I’m a sucker for warmhearted puppies and kitties.”

“That seems statistically unlikely,” Sloane said. She stared at Michael for several seconds, then shrugged. “My turn.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “The average litter size for a beagle is seven puppies.” Sloane paused, then offered up a second statement. “The word spatula is derived from the Greek word spathe, meaning broad, flat blade.”

Sloane didn’t quite grasp the intricacies of the game, but she knew that she was supposed to say two true statements and one false one. She twisted one hand into the other in her lap. Even if her truths hadn’t been obvious, it was clear she was preparing to lie. “The man who owns this casino,” she said, the words coming out in a rush, “is not my father.”

Sloane had spent her entire life keeping this secret. She’d told me. She couldn’t bring herself to tell the others—but she could lie. Badly, obviously, in a game devoted to spotting lies.

I could feel the others brimming with questions, but no one said a single word.

“You have to guess.” Sloane swallowed, then looked up from her lap. “You have to. Those are the rules.”

Michael poked Sloane’s foot with his. “Is it the one about the beagles?”