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“The night we brought you in, I asked him what we were going to do with you. Reasonable question, right? Logistics are my thing. This man looks at me and says, ‘I did not plant him, so I will not reap him. A weed and a flower share the same rain. Only her hands hold the end.’”

Rowan stares at him in silence.

“Yeah,” the Jester says. “That was me too. Took me two days and a whiteboard, but I got there in the end. Here’s the translation, so listen closely.” He leans into the bars. “The only person in this world who gets to kill you is your sister.”

Rowan laughs. “Valli won’t kill me.”

“Probably not, she seems lovely,” the Jester agrees. “But that’s the deal. Your life belongs to her now. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

“You’re all insane.”

The Jester holds up a finger and silences Rowan. “This is the fine print, so pay attention. The riddle covers killing. Nobody said one word about a little friendly torture between two strangers.” He smiles and the paint on his mouth stretches wider. “And you and I, Rowan, are strangers. I was almost shot multiple times because of you. That cost me a good coat. I have been patient because the gentleman next door had seniority, but he is nearly through his rehabilitation program.” He glances at the far cell. “And after that my schedule opens right up.”

Rowan backs up until he is sitting on his cot. I think he is finally realizing that no one is coming for him, and hopefully he is feeling a little of what he put his sister through over the years.

“Well, as fun and riveting as this is, my guest is due for a bath soon. I wouldn’t want him to die of an infection before he leaves us.”

I glance over at the corner of the room, to where a free-standing bathtub waits, filled with something, but I can only imagine it is not water in there. As much as I would love to stay and watch the show, I have to check on Valli and make sure Nixie is playing nice.

The Jester walks me out. “Same time Thursday,” he says. “Oh, and tell Cipher the camera on the back fence has a wasp nest situation. I’d handle it myself, but wasps freak me out.”

I nod and walk back the long way. Guests are now roaming the island, with their maps in hand and little excited children loose.

I pass Nixie’s office, and through the window I spot Valli at her desk. She is writing something on a notepad, and her head tilts back as she laughs at something Nixie is saying. The corn-husk star sits proudly on the corner of her desk. She looks up and finds me staring through the window, and her whole face lights up. I’m not used to anyone looking at me like that. She presses her fingers to her lips and turns them toward me before going back to her list.

I walk to the cornfield, ready to make myself useful. I rip out the warning signs Noa put up and tear away the caution tape.

I am the Scarecrow, and keeping is what I do. Since meeting Valli, things have shifted, and everything I do is for her, even when she doesn’t know it. In the end, Rowan’s life is not mine to take. It will be her choice.

Chapter Eight

Valli

As soon as we step inside the office, Nixie rattles off her coffee order. “Dark roast, machine is in the back. Largest cup, two fingers of room at the top. One-and-a-half raw sugars, cut the packet—don’t eyeball it, and dissolve it before anything else touches that cup. Then heavy cream until it turns the color of wet sand, not dry sand—if you don’t know the difference, you’ll learn. Top it off with one shake of cinnamon. Don’t screw that up and we’ll start the day off good.”

I laugh and then write it down.

“Good girl, the last one tried to memorize it. Make it snappy, we have an island to run.”

I make the coffee, googling the color of wet sand. I can’t say I frequent the beach enough to know the difference.

Once I deem it good enough, I place it on her desk. She peers down at it, and I hold my breath until she nods.

The radio on her desk crackles, and the day starts.

Within an hour, I understand the reason every assistant before me left. It’s not that Nixie is cruel; she moves fast. She holds four different conversations on the radio, on three different channels, and expects me to know which one I’m involved in. She talks in shorthand, doesn’t explain it, and never doubles back. Then says things like, “pull the blue folder,” when there are nine blue folders, and the test is knowing which one.

“Which date?” I ask, my hand resting on the drawer.

“See? That’s the right question. Your predecessor would have brought me all of them and then cried.”

By ten, my notepad has three ruled columns for tasks. Now. Today. Before I die. Nixie glances at it while dictating an email, then stops mid-sentence and taps the page with a manicured nail.

“That’s why I hired you, though I’m happy for you to continue working after your death.” She moves toward the door, grabbing her coat. “On your feet, we are walking now. If you’re going to hold my island in your hands, you need to know how heavy it is.”

Here is what I learn about Fear Island as I walk with Nixie at a speed which is somewhere in the middle of a brisk walk and an urgent police chase.

The island runs twice a day, which I already knew. “Daytime, we are family friendly—they scream, laugh, eat a lot of food with sugar in it. The day side pays the bills and keeps the lawyers bored. Nighttime”—she taps her clipboard, the pink one everyone warned me not to touch—“is what we’re actually here for. Contracts, profiles, and consent forms thick enough to stop a bullet. Every hunter is matched to every guest by hand. My hand and now yours.”