“Mimi!” he called. The back window was blown out, crystal slivers of glass all around him on the back lawn. “Mimi!”
Billy was at his side, holding something. A knife. The knife. Serrated edge. Sharp. Cracked handle wound with knotted twine, but as he reached for it, it wasn’t cracked. It was the under-the-pillow knife, the wings knife, Krishna’s knife.
“You forgot this,” he said, taking the PDA.
Then Davey was in the yard. He cocked his head and eyed the knife warily.
“Where’d you get that?” he said.
Adam shifted his grip for slashing, and took one step forward, stamping his foot down as he did it. Davey retreated a step, then took two steps forward.
“He set the fires,” Bentley said. “She’s as good as dead. Cooked. Won’t be long now, she’ll be cooked.”
Darren looked at him for the first time. “Oh, yes,” he said. “That’s about right. I never found you, no matter how I looked. You don’t get found if you don’t want to.”
Brent shook his head. “He set the fire, he used gasoline. Up the stairs, so it would spread up every floor quickly.”
Aaron growled and lunged forward, slicing wildly, but Davey’s scurry was surprising and fast and nimble.