The group all took the same seats as they’d occupied before. They sat and waited without speaking.
But even though nobody said anything, Sam could tell that something had changed.
Had he lost their confidence?
Maybe.
Perhaps the incident with the scissors had shaken them too badly.
Perhaps he should never have broken the continuity, sent them out of the room, given them an opportunity to bond without him.
And yet, as disturbing and bewildering as it was to admit, he felt oddly shaken as he looked at each of them in turn.
The Librarian.
The Athlete.
The Artist.
The Boxer.
The Lost Girl.
What was it?
What felt so . . . off?
It wasn’t as if any of them were looking at him strangely or suspiciously.
They were all sitting there expectantly, even the Librarian, who was rubbing his palms up and down his trouser legs, seeming somehow cleansed and relieved now that the worst had passed.
So Sam couldn’t necessarily explain it. There was nothing tangible he could point towards in order to rationalize why his mouth was suddenly tacky, his underarms damp, a clot of invisible phlegm rising up and lodging in his throat.
But it was there.
A negative vibe.
A latent threat.
Almost as if one of the five people sitting around him – or perhaps more than one of them – shouldn’t have been here at all.