ONE OF THE printing techs moved to help me, but I got myself up quickly. I wondered if maybe I was in shock about Ellie. “No harm. I'm fine. What's the name here again?” I asked the tech.

    “Cox, sir. Reeve, Eleanor, and James are the victims in the living room.”

    Eleanor Cox. That was right; I remembered now. I stared down at Ellie, my heart racing out of control, tears starting at the corners of my eyes. She had been Ellie Randall when I met her, a smart, attractive history major looking for anti-apartheid signatures from Georgetown University students. Definitely not someone whose story would end like this.

    “Need anything?” Fescoe was back and he was hovering.

    “Just… get me a garbage bag or something,” I told him. “Please. Thank you.”

    I peeled off my Windbreaker and tried to wipe myself with it, then stuck the coat in the bag Fescoe brought me. I needed to keep moving and to get out of this room, at least for now.

    I headed toward the stairs and found Bree just coming down.

    “Alex? Jesus, what happened to you?” she asked.

    I knew if I started to explain, I wouldn't be able to finish. “We'll talk about it later, okay?” I said. “What's going on upstairs?”

    She looked at me strangely but didn't push it. “More of the same. Bad stuff. Third floor, Alex. Two more kids. I think they were trying to hide from the killers, but it didn't work.”

    A photo flash ghosted the stairwell as we climbed. Everything seemed hallucinogenic and unreal to me. I was outside the scene, watching myself stumble through it. Ellie had been murdered. I tried again but couldn't process the thought.