GRISELDA SEIZED MARA BY the shoulders. “Where did you see him last?”

“We’d found the cafeteria,” Mara said, her voice shaky. “But the ID badge wouldn’t open the kitchen door, so he was going to try and find another way in. I waited, but he never came back.”

“Show me.”

They raced out of the activities room, down a short hallway, and finally emerged into the cafeteria. It looked remarkably like the one in Dee’s high school—cavernous ceilings and lively acoustics, with a dozen round tables flanked by plastic chairs. An enormous video screen was embedded in the wall at one end, still showing the rescue of Nyles and Griselda, the acoustics of the battle in the Shining hallway pinging throughout the room. And at the back there was a cafeteria-style window, closed and locked with metal blinds, where the food was served. Somewhere, on the other side, was Ethan.

“Ethan!” Griselda cried. “Where are you?”

As if in answer, the sickening double-doorbell sound effect pinged through the cafeteria.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

“No,” Dee breathed. “Please, no.”

They all turned toward the TV screen, and there, in the middle of the shot, was Ethan.

He was in a room made of glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides, penning him in like it was a prison cell. But he wasn’t tied up or restrained in any way, and instead of standing calmly in the middle of the room, he pounded on the glass, trying to break free.

“You won’t take me without a fight, asshole!” Ethan yelled. Then he punched the glass with his bare fist. It gave slightly but didn’t break.

“Can anyone hear where it’s coming from?” Dee asked desperately.

They stood still, ears straining to catch the reverberations of Ethan’s pounding fists coming from somewhere outside the cafeteria, but it was impossible to hear anything other than what came through the speakers.

“We have to find him.” Griselda ran headlong at the locked cafeteria window, leaping up on the counter with the grace of an Olympic hurdler. She pulled at the metal blinds, hopelessly trying to break the lock that held them in place. Mara climbed up to help.

“Goddamn it!” Griselda screamed in frustration. “Why did we leave the ax at the shop?”

Meanwhile, Nyles and Dee tried the doors. The one on the far wall opened easily, and sunlight streamed into the cafeteria. Beyond, Dee could see the main courtyard of the guard station.

“He wouldn’t have gone outside,” Dee said, letting it close.

“Agreed.” There was only one other option—the door beside the cafeteria window.

Nyles rammed his shoulder against the metal exterior, but it didn’t budge.

“Guys!” Ethan’s voice. It almost sounded as if it was coming from inside the cafeteria instead of through speakers, and Nyles, Dee, Griselda, and Mara all stopped and stared at the video.

“This is it for me,” Ethan said, staring straight at the camera. His face was strangely calm. “Gris…” He smiled. “You know I know.”

Griselda pressed her lips together so hard they practically disappeared, and the bulging muscles in her jaw belied the fierce clenching beneath. She must have felt more for Ethan than Dee had realized.

“Stay alive for me, okay? You have to tell the world about…” Ethan’s voice trailed off as a figure moved into the frame. He was in shadow, but he carried an old-fashioned megaphone, like the kind they used in black-and-white movies. Which could only mean one thing.

“Cecil B. DeViolent,” Griselda said. “That son of a bitch.”

Cecil held the megaphone up to his mouth, turning to the side so that the camera caught his full silhouette. “Lights!”

Immediately, dozens of open-faced tungsten lights ignited, flooding the darkness around the glass room with a warm glow.

With the lights on, Dee could see that the set was some kind of office. There were several desks—off-white metal with a row of drawers alongside and computer monitors on top—flanked by wheeled chairs, and a half dozen large pieces of furniture: file cabinets, printer stations, massive outdated computer servers. Definitely an office environment, but not the least bit modern. Even the desktop computers looked like the old Apples she’d seen in a technology museum: big and heavy with black screens and unwieldy keyboards.

And to make the whole thing even weirder, the office was decorated for Christmas. Each desk had a tiny fake Christmas tree, complete with lights, and garlands had been strung along the wall behind the glass cell.

Cecil held up the megaphone again. “Actors to their places!”

He disappeared out of frame. When he returned, he carried a mannequin.

With his back to the camera, Cecil lugged the human-size doll across the set and arranged it on the floor beside one of the desks. It was dressed in black pants and a black button-down shirt, open to the sternum. Or what would have been the sternum if it weren’t made of plastic. It had what looked like a toy machine gun slung around one arm, and on its head a long blond wig.

Somewhere in the depths of Dee’s brain, a memory stirred. This scene was familiar. Something she’d seen before. But what was it?

Once satisfied with the placement of the dummy, Cecil moved across the room and crouched behind one of the servers. Finally, in the light, Dee saw that he was dressed for the location. He wore a dark business suit, light blue shirt, burgundy tie. A full beard, probably fake, shrouded his face, along with a pair of large sunglasses. By his side was a handgun.

Ethan stopped pounding on the glass and watched intently as Cecil set the scene. Slowly, a smile spread across Ethan’s face. “Oh my fucking God, are you serious here? Die Hard ? This is awesome!”

Only Ethan would be excited that his imminent death would mimic a scene from his favorite movie.

“But I need a machine gun, Cecil,” he said, immediately serious. “John McClane has one, remember? You’re not following the script.”

Cecil paused, as if thinking. Was he really going to give Ethan a machine gun? A working one? That would give him a chance. Dee’s heart raced. All Ethan needed was a chance.

But Dee’s momentary hope was immediately dashed. Cecil shook his head, then cupped his hand to his face.

“Roll film. Aaaaaand action!”

“Dude, you suck!” Ethan said.

But Cecil wasn’t listening. He turned to the blond dummy. “Karl,” he said, “schiess auf das Fenster.”

“Cut!” Ethan yelled, his face more irate than fearful. “Hey, douche! Hans says, ‘Schiess dem Fenster!’ Did you even watch the movie?”

Cecil’s shoulders drooped; his head tilted to the side in irritation. He stared at Ethan for a moment, as if he was going to argue the point, then muttered, “Fine.”

“Seriously,” Ethan said, folding his arms across his chest. “I expected a little bit more professionalism from you.”

Cecil took a long, deep breath through pursed lips, then let it out with a slow hiss. “Resetting. Aaaaaaand action!” He snapped back into character and began the scene over. “Karl, schiess dem Fenster.”

Ethan nodded appreciatively. “Thank you.”

Karl, the dummy, didn’t respond. So Cecil, a.k.a. Hans, clarified his statement. “Shoot the glass.”

Ethan braced himself. “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.”

A wall of gunfire erupted. The glass room in which Ethan was imprisoned seemed to explode from the impact, glass and bullets flying in from all directions.

Ethan didn’t even flinch. He stood firm in the middle of the room while his body was simultaneously riddled with bullets and impaled by thousands of razor-sharp shards of glass.

As suddenly as it began, the gunfire stopped. Ethan, bloodied almost beyond recognition, a smile still plastered across his face, collapsed to the floor.