“Which means Cecil set up the Die Hard scene here, in the guard station.”
“And if that’s true,” Dee said, realizing what Griselda meant, “how did The Postman know that Ethan would be here today?”
Ethan hadn’t been jogging around the island when he’d been captured. He hadn’t been taken from the Barracks or the gym, places one would expect to find Ethan if he was going to be the next victim. It was true that Nyles was supposed to be at the guard station today, but not the rest of them. They’d gone there on a whim.
“He’s been leading us around like calves to the slaughter,” Dee said, her stomach sinking. “He knew that the guards were all dead, and that if Nyles survived the Hardy Girls, he’d discover what had happened up here.”
“But not that Ethan would be with him,” Griselda countered.
“Maybe not,” Mara said, “but, Nyles, what’s the first thing you would have done if you’d come up here alone and found everyone dead?”
Nyles’s eyes sought out Dee’s face. “I’d have raced back to find you.”
Dee smiled. “And we all would have returned here. Not much of a stretch to assume Ethan would be with us.”
“Seems like a lot of what-ifs,” Griselda said, unconvinced.
“Can you think of a better explanation?” Dee asked.
“No.” Griselda’s eyes shifted from Dee to Mara and back again. “Unless one of us is a traitor.”
And by “one of us,” Griselda meant Mara.
Mara took an involuntary step backward. “Me? You think I work for The P-Postman?”
“She helped save your life,” Dee said, instantly defensive.
“Gris,” Nyles started. “I don’t think we should be turning on each—”
Griselda cut him off. “But she’s not really one of us, is she? And she knows an awful lot about all the Painiacs. Too much.”
“If she’s been working for The Postman,” Dee said, at Mara’s side, “then why did she kill the last Hardy Girl to save my life?”
“You saw the manifest,” Griselda said. “The Postman is cycling out his killers.”
“WHAT?” Nyles and Mara exclaimed in unison.
“Oh yes,” Griselda replied, eyes wide. “We found an e-mail open on the desktop. He sent all the old Painiacs to Alcatraz two-point-oh yesterday, and he’s planning on bringing in a whole new crop. The Painiacs won’t be allowed to leave this island. Get it? Princess even suggested that The Postman wanted us to take out the Hardy Girls to save him the trouble.”
Dee thought of how reluctant Mara had been to get involved in the first place, how Dee had had to beg for her help. She wasn’t going to let Griselda pin all of this on her. “But it was my idea for all of us to come up here. Not Mara’s.”
Griselda planted her hands on her hips. “Fine. Then maybe you’re the traitor. All of our problems started when you arrived anyway.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous,” Nyles said. “Our heads were all on the chopping block already. It has nothing to do with Dee.”
Griselda paused for a moment, her conviction about Dee’s guilt wavering. She released a slow breath, and her body seemed to cave. “Well, even if she’s not one of them, it doesn’t change the fact that we’ve got an island full of dead bodies and a small army of government-sanctioned serial killers who could literally be anywhere.” Griselda threw her hands up. “You got a plan to save us from that, Princess?”
Serial killers who could be anywhere…
But not really anywhere.
Dee turned to Mara. “Where does DIYnona do her kills?”
“The old chapel,” she said. “Judging by the windows and what’s left of the altar. She’s done a lot of redecorating.”
“And the Barbaric Barista?”
“Coffee Unlimited,” she replied without hesitation. “It was an espresso import company with a small café not far from Main Street.”
Mara knew about all the Painiacs: where they killed, and how. So far, The Postman had been a step ahead of them—dictating their actions, manipulating their thoughts. He’d had the advantage because he had complete control of the island.
But what if they could change that?
“We have to tell someone what’s happening here,” Dee said, her jaw tightening as she realized what she was going to have to do.
“Wow, brilliant,” Griselda said. “Do we also need air to breathe and food to eat?”
But Nyles noticed the change in Dee’s demeanor. “What are you thinking?”
“There’s only one guaranteed way to get airtime on Alcatraz two-point-oh,” Dee said. Ethan had been onto something without even realizing it, right before Cecil cut him off. No deaths happened on Alcatraz 2.0 without a camera watching, and right now what Dee needed most of all was a live camera feed. And Mara was the key to finding it.
“Dee,” Mara began, “no.”
But her mind was made up.
Without another word, Dee turned and marched out of the cafeteria.
IT WAS DARK WHEN Dee, Nyles, Griselda, and Mara emerged from Dee’s house. A slivered moon hung above the horizon, and though the sparkling lights of the Embarcadero twinkled across the water, on Alcatraz 2.0 only the muted streetlights fought off the all-consuming darkness.
The fog had hung back, thankfully. Though it would have shrouded the island in a suitably atmospheric haze, conjuring up images of Jack the Ripper stalking prostitutes through murky London streets, it also affected the cameras, obscuring their ever-present gaze.
Since Dee’s arrival, she’d loathed those cameras. They brought fear and pain and death. But tonight she eyed the nearest crow-cam with a rueful smile, relieved to see it rotate toward them. The Postman might have shut the cameras down earlier for his own purposes, but the motion-sensing crows were operating once again. Which was a good thing. It was more important than ever that her image be captured clearly for the world to see.
They’d stopped at each of their houses to change and gather food; then they’d shared a silent meal in Dee’s kitchen. While Nyles, Griselda, and Mara were dressed for a chilly fall night—in long pants and warm layers—Dee had decided to play the part of dutiful victim. Instead of mixing and matching her princess garb, she’d chosen a pre-matched outfit that fit her fan-given nickname. A powder-blue knee-length dress in textured damask, corseted in the back, with a light crinoline underneath. She doused her cheekbones with a heavy coating of the shimmery highlighter from The Postman’s preselected makeup array, and lacquered her lips with sticky pink gloss. Hell, Dee even donned the black choker she’d worn her first day on the island, and the clear Lucite kitten heels that evoked Cinderella’s glass slippers.
“You look like my four-year-old niece on dress-up day at preschool.” Griselda walked behind Dee as they made their way down to Ninth Street.
“If The Postman wants Cinderella Survivor,” Dee said with a shrug, “then I’m going to give her to him.”
“You’re braver than I am,” Griselda replied. It was the closest thing to a compliment Dee had ever heard from her mouth.
The plan was simple: they had to get themselves captured. Viewership goes up between eight at night and two in the morning, Blair had said. Well, Dee and her friends were about to give The Postman his largest ratings spike yet. They were going to walk straight into the lion’s den, visiting every single kill room on the island until they stumbled upon one of the Painiacs. Then, game on.
“Where to first?” Dee asked as they passed the soccer field.
“Molly Mauler always uses the auditorium at the old elementary school,” Mara began. At least her Sherlockian deductions would ensure they’d be well prepared for whatever nightmare might await. “I recognized the art deco stage and balcony where Molly watches the slaughter.”
“Is that the one up the street from the old brig?” Dee asked.
“Yep.”
“If Molly has her arsenal of man-eating animals within,” Nyles said, “we should be able to hear them from outside.”
“Oh, good,” Griselda said. “So we’ll be able to identify which species is going to tear us limb from limb. Yay.”
“We’ll be able,” Nyles said, lifting his chin haughtily, “to have some warning.”
Dee really hoped so. Of all the ways to die on Alcatraz 2.0, getting eaten alive by an endangered species seemed like the worst.
“After Molly,” Mara explained, speaking quickly as if she wanted to make sure she got all the information out, “we’ll try Robin’s Hood at the old dry dock.”
Dee nodded. “Check.”
“More so than the other Painiacs, Robin has a tendency to heavily restrain his victims,” Mara continued, “so we have to be careful.”
Right. Because offering yourself up as a victim to a serial killer was such a careful thing to do.
Mara kept her voice low as they ran down the list, still dogged by cameras. Gucci Hangman’s warehouse was conveniently located next to Robin’s dry dock, and Dee half hoped that Gucci would be there. She owed him one for Blair.
After Gucci they’d try Barbaric Barista, whose kills didn’t take as much prep time as some of the other Painiacs. BB maintained a torture chamber of hipster delights, from a life-size artisanal coffee grinder to an old-timey barber’s chair where victims got more than a little taken off the top. If they were ambushed by the lumberjack-bearded, man-bun-sporting BB, Dee hoped her knowledge of obscure Los Angeles indie bands might keep him talking long enough for their plan to work.
Mara’s intel on cannibalistic chef Hannah Ball was slightly less reliable, mainly because Hannah was the newest of The Postman’s killers, with only a half dozen murders under her belt, so there wasn’t as much to go on. Still, Mara was pretty sure that Brews ’N’ Brats—the last decent dining establishment to exist on Treasure Island—was the only place that would have the necessary culinary infrastructure to accommodate Hannah’s cannibalistic cooking supplies: a human-size stockpot, an enormous sausage stuffer, and a two-story deep fryer.
Cecil B. DeViolent was a long shot. Ethan had only been murdered eight hours ago, and the idea that Cecil would be set up for another “shoot” in the old porn soundstage was slim.
But according to Mara, it had been weeks since DIYnona’s last kill, and since the chapel was always set up the same way—with a crafter’s dream array of supplies for macramé, glass blowing, origami, silk-screening, and a dozen other decorative arts—DIYnona might be ready to go at a moment’s notice.
And then there was Gassy Al. His signature gas chamber was airtight, with glass doors and high ceilings through which both Al and The Postman’s viewers got a 360-degree view of the victim’s torment, and Mara had deduced that it could only be located at one place on the island.
“If I was putting money on it,” Mara said, her countenance more pensive than before, “I’d say that we’re most likely to find Gassy Al, wearing his black executioner’s cowl at the old Treasure Island Pavilion near the pier.”
“I’d always wondered where that gas chamber might be,” Nyles said. “Nicely done.”
“It was a little tricky to find.” Mara dropped her eyes, clearly not used to praise. “The original structure’s been surrounded by an outer wall since the last time Google Maps footage was shot on the island.” She sounded proud, as if her esoteric knowledge of the Painiacs was finally appreciated. Which was true. Mara’s debriefing might literally save their lives, so even though Dee found her neighbor’s obsession with The Postman app to be a little unsettling, it was about to come in handy.
“But Al doesn’t wear the cowl,” Griselda said after a pause. “That’s Robin.”
Mara flushed, mortified by her mistake. “Right. Sorry. But look, I’m positive about the pavilion.”
Griselda shook her head. “You’d better be.”
“I’m sure Mara’s right,” Dee said. “We’ll hit Al last.”
Although there was still Prince Slycer.
Yes, he was dead. Of that, Nyles was 100 percent sure. He’d felt Slycer’s jugular and there had been no pulse. Couldn’t exactly fake that kind of symptom. And yet, if they didn’t encounter any of the Painiacs on their tour, Dee would suggest Slycer’s warehouse maze as their last stop.
If The Postman really wanted to make a statement, that was where he’d do it.
Nine locations. Eventually Dee and her friends would run into a Painiac, and then they’d have The Postman’s undivided attention.
She figured they’d get ten seconds max before The Postman realized what they were doing and cut the feed. Or the sound. Or both. Either way, it didn’t matter. They only needed a few seconds to tell the world what was really happening on Alcatraz 2.0.
Of course, then they’d have another problem entirely. Surviving.
But there were four of them. And as with the Hardy Girls, Dee and her friends had proven that if they worked together and trusted one another, they could win.
Are you sure you can trust them?
That nagging voice in the back of her brain refused to go away. Dee had allowed herself to trust these people, just as she’d allowed herself to trust Kimmi.
How had that worked out?
DEE LAY ON THE floor, pretending to sleep. Twice now, Kimmi had shown up in the white room, emerging through the hidden door while Dee was sound asleep. Last time, she’d woken Dee with a fierce kick to her lower back, the pain from the blow almost as terrifying as the unpredictability of her captor’s mood, but Kimmi’s state of mind seemed to swing violently back and forth, and as soon as Dee sat up, Kimmi was all smiles.
“Sing me a song,” she’d said sweetly. “A song about your pretty new sister and how much you love her. You have to earn nice things.”
Dee had played along, inventing lyrics on the spot about how pretty Kimmi was, and how lucky Dee was to have her as a big sister. Dee had been made to beg for food. To braid hair and paint toenails and “play” other “games,” Kimmi’s code word for torture. But somehow that stupid little song about the wonderful and beautiful Kimmi had been the last straw.
So while she’d continued to sing, inwardly she’d been plotting.
The door. She’d searched for it, tried to trigger it, but without success. The only one who could open that door was Kimmi, and so Dee would have to be ready the next time her kidnapper entered the white room.
After Kimmi had left that day, dropping a greasy bag of cold french fries on the floor as she retreated through the hidden door, Dee had tried to act as normal as possible. She’d opened her eyes as she spun around from her place in the corner, then pounced on the bag, scarfed down its contents. All exactly as Kimmi would expect. When she was done, Dee had sat down on the floor and waited.
It was hard to know how much time had passed, since the lights were always on and Dee had no sense as to the passing of day and night, but she tried to mimic her daily “routine” as closely as possible. After staring at the walls for a while, she executed a perimeter search of the room for at least the dozenth time, feeling her way down the smooth walls as she sought an escape. She pretended to be excited in one corner, as if she thought she’d found something, but after a thorough examination of the area, Dee pretended to give up, breaking down into fake tears. Then she curled up into a ball and, making sure her hair was artfully covering her face, she acted as if she was asleep.
Only, Dee was wide awake and on alert. She regulated her breathing and lay utterly still for what felt like an eternity. Her muscles ached, desperate for a change of position. The cold, hard floor felt as if it was stabbing her body in a million different places, but she didn’t move. She was sure that Kimmi was watching her somehow. Waiting. And Dee had to be ready to act the instant she heard…
Click.
The door release. Dee had memorized the sound, which meant that Kimmi was about to creep into the white room. Through her tangled hair, Dee saw a section of the far wall crack open.
Now!
Dee jumped to her feet and rushed the door. She arrived just as Kim
mi stepped through. The older girl was shocked to find Dee barreling toward her, and it dulled her reaction. Even though Dee was smaller, she had momentum on her side. She shoved Kimmi so hard, she stumbled, falling back against a steep flight of stairs.
Dee ran for her life. She pumped her weakened legs as fast as she could, racing up the stairs. She heard a shriek of rage from behind her, then pounding footsteps.
Kimmi was in pursuit.
“Help me!” Dee screamed. Maybe there was someone home. But was that a good thing? Kimmi had told Dee that her dad used the white room to kill people. Would Dee be next?
She had to take the chance.
“Somebody, help!”
The door at the top of the stairs was closed, but as Dee wrenched the knob, it turned easily.
“Stop it!” Kimmi cried. “You’re mine!”
Dee tumbled through the door and into a hallway. Bright sunshine flooded the space. It was the middle of the day, which meant even if nobody else was in the house, there had to be people outside: gardeners, stay-at-home parents, deliverymen. Her sneakers squeaked against the shiny hardwood floors as she bolted down the hall, searching for the front door. “Help me! Someone help me!”
A knock in the distance. “Hello? Is everyone okay in there?”
Someone was at the front door. Someone heard her.
Dee ran in the direction of the voice, through what looked like an expansive kitchen into an arched foyer. “I’ve been kidnapped!” she cried. She saw the front door, saw the body of someone outlined in the beveled glass window beside it. “My name is Dolores Hernandez and I’ve been—”
Dee’s hand was on the door handle when someone grabbed her from behind.
“No!” Kimmi hissed. “I won’t let you go. I’ll never let you go!”
Kimmi dragged Dee away from the front door, away from freedom, back toward the white room. Dee struggled against her but was too weak to fight her off. “Call nine-one-one!” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “Don’t let her take me back. Please!”
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