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Those bitches.” Hurley glared at Windermere. “I told you your kind couldn’t be trusted. Leave them alone for five minutes and they start trying to take advantage.”

He gestured up with the pistol. “I’ll teach them to get crafty. Stand up. You’re coming with me. Try anything funny and I’ll empty this clip in your back.”

Windermere thought fast, knew Stevens was up there with the rescue party, didn’t want this thing devolving into violence until the hostages were out of the house at least. Figured the minute Hurley knew he had company, he’d start shooting. Figured she’d be the most likely target.

“What’s your hurry?” she asked him. Worked to keep her voice calm, conversational. “Where are they going to go, Leland? I saw a map of the house. This is the only way down.”

She didn’t let on that the map had been drawn by a seven-year-old. Or that she knew at least one other way up.

“Windows,” Hurley said. “They could unlock them. Climb out.”

“How? You must have tied them up, right?”

Hurley didn’t say anything.

“So they’re banging around a little bit,” Windermere said. “They’re not going far. You’re that sick of me already?”

Hurley still didn’t answer. His eyes lingered on the base of the stairs, just barely visible from the living room. Windermere knew she was losing him, knew she had to try another tack.

“I mean, come on,” she continued. “We’re making progress here, aren’t we?” Her eyes scanned the living room, the front door, the stairs, the weathered couch and worn rug. Trailed to the kitchen doorway, saw the blood on the floor, the cabinets.

“Lot of blood in there,” she said casually. “I guess that’s the man of the house, huh?”

Hurley stared at her blankly. Followed her eyes. Saw what she saw, and a smile crept onto his face, creepy and slow.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that was him all right.”

“What did you do to him?”

Hurley didn’t answer.

“Come on,” she said. “I have you for, like, twenty-five murders and a kidnapping scenario. You’re not getting yourself into any more trouble. Besides, I want to know.” She looked into his eyes. “How’d you do it?”

Hurley did nothing. Just breathed, a glint in his eyes as he thought things over. Finally, he settled.

“I cut him.” He patted his belt, his knife in its sheath. “With this knife I took from some Indian girl. You want to see what I did to him?”

No, Windermere thought. Hell no, I do not.

But she stood. “Sure,” she said. “Sure, Leland. Why not?”