Holding Breath, Part 1

Andy stepped into the Master's Suite, salt-crusted and perfectly rested despite the sunrise he'd just witnessed. The room felt quiet as the first seconds after snowfall—soundless and heavy with light. Erin's transformation had worked its magic; in the tangle of limbs with her, Claire, and Marissa on the beach, he must have found his way to sleeping on her breasts, and he felt perfectly refreshed. He ran his fingers through salt-stiffened hair and glanced at the enormous bed, its covers still rumpled from yesterday. Time meant something different here. It didn't matter, not really. He had more than enough time to shower and change before the transformation meeting.

He dressed—buttoned shirt, swim shorts beneath—and padded through the suite, absently checking the digital clock on the kitchen’s LCD display. Nine-something. The breakfast tray sat untouched; he noted the way the carafe of coffee steamed faintly in the diffused light. Andy ignored it. The day before had been an exhausting circuit of heartbreak and joy, and he could already feel the residue of it in his bones.

He found her exactly where he’d left her: the painting, set with on the bedroom wall, so that it caught every diagonal ray from the wall of glass that was half the room. Katherine’s gaze followed him as he entered, just as it always did. He could see, from the glint of defiance in her green eyes, that she had been awake and waiting.

“You didn’t miss much last night,” he tried, but then immediately walked it back. “Well, you did, but…” Andy trailed off and pinched the bridge of his nose, exhausted by the sadness that her uncanny presence always drew from somewhere in his chest. “The party was good. The girls were… They were happy, for the first time since any of this started. It was…” He found himself tongue-tied, searching for the word. “It was fun. Actual fun, not the kind that’s **** when you’re trying to forget all the other stuff.”

Her response was a tilt of her head, a small arch of one painted eyebrow that seemed, impossibly, to flicker with both humor and skepticism. She had always been able to express contempt for the game and affection for its players in a single, surgical look. Her hair—the same waterfall of black, longer than should have been possible, a story written in brushstrokes—hung down her back and to her ankles, framing her bare shoulders like a fur stole. She was, Andy thought, still the most beautiful thing in the room.

“I wish you could have been there,” he said. He meant it. “I think you would have enjoyed it.” He hesitated, tried to catch her gaze, but she looked instead to the window—a gesture so human it stung. Then, after a moment, she pointed at herself, then at the wall behind, and finally made a sweeping gesture to the ceiling, as if she could indicate all the floors and walls between her and the beach.

“You mean you’re stuck,” Andy said, “or that you want to be stuck?” He paused. “Why do you want the others to think you’re just a painting? You told me to keep it a secret, but… why?”

She lifted her shoulders, then, with a precise, elegant turn, moved so that her left hand rested against her hip and her right traced the outline of the frame’s bottom edge. She mimed the act of holding something—then released it, palm open. Her face fell, eyes lowering, and Andy understood: the painting, the cage, was both her armor and her prison.

“You don’t want to scare them,” he realized. “You think if they knew… if they saw you like this, it’d just make everything worse. Or maybe you don’t want them to pity you.” He took a step closer, his eyes softening. “Is that it? You’re not afraid of what you are—you just don’t want them to look at you like you’re broken.”

Katherine’s answer was a slow, deliberate nod. Her lips curved—almost a smile, but the sadness lingered at the corners. She reached for her own breast, fingers splayed, then tapped her chest twice, a gesture he’d seen her use before when she tried to emphasize sincerity, or a kind of oath.

He stared at her, caught for a moment by the sheer artistry of the work. Arabella’s “punishments” were never without aesthetics, but Katherine’s body had the air of a woman captured at her best, every muscle and line both real and idealized. She had been here for fourteen years, and Andy doubted she looked a day older than she had been when she had been trapped.

For a long moment, he just stood there, taking in her—her, not the painting—and wondered how anyone could think she was just pigment on canvas. He wanted to reach through, touch her, something. But the rules of her prison seemed as clear and rigid as ever: she couldn’t come to him, and he couldn’t go to her.

He broke the silence. “You want to know what you missed?” He waited for a nod, then found himself narrating the night in spite of himself—how the girls had eaten charred pineapple and breadfruit, how Dawn and Emi had started a contest to see who could do the most cartwheels in a row, how Marissa and Chloe had organized an impromptu “worst pop song” karaoke showdown. How, for three hours, nobody mentioned elimination, transformations, or even the next day.

Katherine’s expression shifted minutely at every detail, as if she were listening not just with her eyes but with her entire being. When he finished, she reached up and mimed a small, perfect clap, as if to say: you did well.

He grinned, his mood lifted just a little. “You’d have made a hell of a party host,” he said.

A pause. Katherine pointed at her own chest, then raised her thumb, and cocked a finger like a small, ladylike gun, aiming at him. She then mimed catching something from thin air—his attention, he guessed.

“You think I’m the host now?” Andy asked, voice catching between laugh and regret. “You mean, because I’m trying to keep everyone happy? Or just that I’m the only one dumb enough to take care of these lunatics?”

She smirked, then looked away to the window, eyes hooded with something softer than sadness.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, his voice dropping. “I know you’re trapped, and I can’t help with that. But you’ve been in this situation for—” he hesitated, “—a very, very long time. Doesn’t it ever get easier?”

Katherine’s face went through a slow-motion spectrum: amusement, then irritation, then something almost like guilt. She shook her head, once, firmly. Then she reached out, and with both hands, made an odd, wrenching gesture—like she was trying to tear something in two, but couldn’t quite do it.

He watched, thinking: She doesn’t want to be split. She wants to belong somewhere, even if that somewhere is this godawful frame.

A quiet beat stretched between them, heavy and familiar. Andy shifted, leaning against the bedpost, his own body tense and awkward. Then, out of nowhere, Katherine made a gesture he had not seen before: she raised her hands, pressed them together as if in prayer, and then, slowly, slid one hand away from the other, palm gliding along the skin as if savoring the touch. Her eyes locked on his, vivid and alive.

Andy felt a flush rise on his own skin as the memory surfaced—Katherine's hands making that unmistakable gesture two days ago, her eyes pleading with him to help her feel something, anything. He'd hesitated, then nodded, understanding what she needed. Now he saw the aftermath in her gaze—the lingering satisfaction mixed with hunger, as if she'd tasted freedom but couldn't quite grasp it.

He laughed, a dry, incredulous sound. "So it… it worked?" he asked, voice dropping to a whisper. "When I—when you watched me?"

Katherine nodded, then made a thumbs-up motion with her hand. She pointed at her own body, traced the outline of her frame, then shuddered visibly—a perfect replica of release, trapped in two dimensions.

"I'm glad," he whispered, "that you could feel something." He trailed off, embarrassed despite their intimacy. "I just wanted you to feel real. To feel like a woman, not just art on a wall."

She smiled, then, and this time the sadness was gone, replaced by something bright and unguarded. She mimed a small heart over her own, then held the gesture there, as if afraid it would vanish if she let go.

He moved closer, now only a foot from the painting, so close he could see the intricate play of color in the shadows beneath her collarbone. “If there’s ever anything I can do to make this easier…” he trailed off. “Just—tell me. Or show me. I’ll try.”

He meant it. The universe could wind down tomorrow, and he’d still spend his last hour trying to find a way to ease this particular pain.

She hesitated, but not for long. Katherine’s eyes flicked left, right, as if consulting a script only she could see, or perhaps as if Arabella’s presence still lingered behind the glass, spying. Then—so suddenly it startled him—she raised both hands and performed a rapid, complex ballet of gestures: first, the “shhh” sign, index finger to perfect lips; then, a sharp line drawn across her own mouth, leaving an invisible seam; then, a gentle tapping above her temple, as if to say, Remember; and finally, a slow, deliberate sweep of her hand toward Andy.

He watched carefully, aware that she never wasted a single movement. The full sequence was a kind of pantomime poem, and he worked to decipher it while she watched him, hunger and anxiety both written across her features. The signals were simple, but the meaning beneath them vibrated with urgency: Keep the secret. Protect the others. And—he saw it in the taper of her fingers, the slight tremor at their tips—don’t let me fade.

Andy nodded, once, then again with the solemnity of an oath. “I promise,” he said. He sensed, even without her responding, that she would remember this pledge forever. In her universe, words were currency, and he’d just bought her another day of hope.

The silence that followed was their kind of silence: not empty, but full, like the hush of a concert hall just before the music begins again. Andy shifted his weight, then found his eyes tracing the curve of her jaw, the way her lips parted as if waiting for a word she couldn’t say. He wondered how it would feel to touch her face—would it be cold oil on linen, or would his fingertips find warmth, the pulse beneath the painted flesh?

She must have read the question in his gaze, because she leaned forward, straining against the invisible wall that held her in place. Her eyes were wide and dark, almost bottomless, and she held his focus with a **** that dared him to move, to act, to risk.

He laughed, softly. It felt ridiculous, standing in his own bedroom, considering the etiquette of kissing a portrait. But the moment demanded it—no, she demanded it, and always had. Andy closed the tiny distance between them, so close he could feel the heat from the sunlight on the glass, the slight static charge of the air. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the painted surface, expecting coolness, resistance, maybe even nothing at all.

Instead, he felt an electric jolt—a thrum of recognition that vibrated along his mouth and into his chest. He tasted the faintest tang of linseed and pigment, the memory of turpentine from a studio years before, but something else, sharper and more alive, lingered in the contact. He imagined he could feel her breath, just for a second, and it threatened to undo him entirely.

When he opened his eyes, Katherine’s face had changed. She was flushed—actually flushed, as if the paint itself had responded to his touch. Her lips trembled, parted in a gasp he couldn’t hear, and her eyes glistened with wetness that might have been a trick of the light, but Andy knew otherwise. There was joy there, pure and simple and undiluted by regret or fear.

He stepped back, suddenly shy, but she only followed him with her gaze, never releasing the thread of connection they’d just spun between them. Katherine raised her hand, laid it over her heart, and then—slowly, reverently—extended that hand toward him, as if presenting him with something invisible but infinitely precious.

He took it. He didn’t know what it was, but he took it, and in that instant, the heaviness that had haunted him since arriving in this place seemed to evaporate. They lingered, both unwilling to let the moment go, and Andy understood in a flash of clarity: he was the only witness to her existence, the only one who cared if she lived or died, and that was a responsibility he could never relinquish.

After a long time, Andy checked the clock. The numbers glowed, indifferent to the miracle that had just occurred. “I have to go,” he said, his voice as intimate as a secret. “There’s a thing on the beach—Arabella’s holding court, or whatever. The next round, the next set of…” He trailed off, not wanting to sully this perfect communion with reminders of the world outside her frame. “I’ll come back later. I promise.”

Katherine nodded, then caught him with her eyes and made a small, deliberate wave. She pressed her fingers to her lips, then pointed at him, then back to her own heart. He recognized the gesture now; it was the way she said stay safe, or take a piece of me with you, or perhaps nothing so literal, just the wordless ache of loving someone you might never touch again.

Andy left the room smiling, wider than he’d meant to, but he didn’t try to hide it.

He would tell no one what had passed, not even if they begged him.

But the secret warmed him all the way to the door.

The walk to the main beach was brisk and bright, and by the time Andy reached the white arch of the gazebo, the sun was high enough to heat the boards underfoot. From a distance, he saw several of the women already gathered, most in various stages of post-party regret.

Norah and Emi sat side by side on the lowest step, huddled behind sunglasses that did little to mask the raw suffering of their hangovers. Norah hunched forward, her arms wrapped tight around her middle, while Emi drooped, catatonic, all six hands splayed protectively over a to-go cup of water. Every so often, one of Emi’s hands would try to lift her hair off the back of her neck, only to give up and let it fall again.

Dawn, by contrast, bounced around the open railings with the inexhaustible vigor of a child let out for recess. She wore a sundress dotted with small strawberries and her hair was up in a messy bun, the only nod to last night’s excess a faint pink under her eyes and a slight croak in her laugh. She was practically vibrating.

Andy approached, glancing up the line. “Morning, ladies. You all look…” He trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Like ****?” Norah said, not bothering to look up.

“Like we could kill you with our thoughts,” Emi added, her voice a low croak.

Dawn let out a peal of laughter, then darted over to stand beside Andy. “It’s not fair,” she announced, grinning wide. “I had just as much to drink as they did, but thanks to my Wake Up Call, I don’t even feel it.” She spun, then balanced on tiptoe. “I haven’t slept either!”

Norah pulled her sunglasses down just enough to glare. “If you keep talking, I’ll throw you into the ocean.”

“Try me!” Dawn said, then scampered off to circle the others, radiating positivity like it was a personal vendetta.

Andy grinned, happy to see Dawn back to her old self. He sat next to Emi, leaving a careful gap. “How bad is it, scale of one to ‘I will never drink again’?”

Emi’s middle-right hand made a so-so motion, but her lower left gave a limp thumbs-down. “Never again,” she whispered. “Except maybe in tea. Or juice. Or if you want me to.”

He laughed. “You don’t have to impress me, Emi.”

“I do,” she said, then hid her face behind three hands at once.

Up at the next level, Chloe and Liesa sipped coffee in companionable silence, their bodies angled toward the sun. Liesa’s legs dangled over the edge, swinging in slow arcs.

Andy climbed the steps and flopped down next to them, then blinked at Liesa’s cup. “Didn’t take you for a coffee girl,” he said.

Liesa made a face and nudged Chloe’s foot with her own. “Sometimes tea is not enough,” she said, the words edged with embarrassment.

Chloe smiled into her cup, then looked up at Andy. “It’s good to see you.” Her voice was soft and a little shy, but there was a lightness to it he hadn’t heard before.

“Good to see you, too,” he said. “You look… radiant.”

Chloe blushed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Liesa let out a nervous giggle, then took a deep breath. “Can I ask you something?” She looked at Chloe, who nodded encouragement, then faced Andy with an anxious little smile. “You are really not upset that I am… how you say… spending more time with Sam? I know this is the Harem Hotel, and you are the Master, but—”

Andy held up a hand. “You don’t have to ask. You two make each other happy. I want that. I told you.”

She blinked. “I know, but sometimes is hard to believe.” She bit her lip, thinking. “If you ever decide you do not like it, you will say?”

“I’ll say,” he promised. “But I like it. A lot.”

Chloe elbowed Liesa, who laughed again, this time with relief. “Okay,” Liesa said, “now I will stop asking you every day. Maybe every week.”

“If you ask again before lunch,” Andy said, “I might have to reconsider.”

Liesa’s eyes went wide, and she faked a scandalized gasp. “You would not!”

He shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t. But seriously, Liesa, it’s okay. I think you’re great together.”

Her face turned pink, and for a moment Andy thought it was just the morning sun. But then her eyes sparkled, and she reached out to touch his hand, fingers feather-light. “I love you,” she said, then giggled again, unable to hold his gaze for more than a second.

He squeezed her hand. “I love you too.” He meant it, and from the way her breath caught, he thought she understood. “I’ll talk to you later,” he promised.

Chloe set her coffee down and edged closer to Andy. She studied his face, searching for something, then took a breath. “Andy?”

“Yes?”

“I want to be worthy of Claire’s trust,” she said. “Two nights ago, she… she tried to do something for all of us that no one else ever has. I’ve always been the weakest link, the first to break.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “But I want to change that. I want you to know that I’m trying to change that. Will you help me?”

He put an arm around her and pulled her close, letting her lean into him. “Chloe,” he said. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

She nodded, and for a long time, neither of them moved. Then she broke away, face wet with tears she hadn’t meant to shed. “I can’t wait for our date night,” she said, then blushed, as if realizing the implication for the first time.

He laughed. “Neither can I.” Then he kissed her cheek, soft and careful, and she pressed her face into his shoulder, trembling with silent joy.

The others watched, not speaking. Even Dawn, now perched on the railing, seemed content to let the hush ride.

Andy looked out at the horizon, feeling a peace he hadn’t expected. He was exactly where he needed to be.

At the top of the stairs, a familiar voice called out—Marissa, joined by Sam, Erin, and Claire. The morning crowd was complete.

At the top of the steps, Marissa strode in with the brisk, businesslike air of someone reporting for jury duty rather than a mystical tribunal. She was flanked by Sam, who bounded ahead with her arms stretched wide, and by Erin, whose face glowed with a kind of easy confidence that made Andy’s heart skip for reasons he tried not to interrogate. Claire trailed just behind, notebook hugged to her chest, eyes flicking from the crowd to Andy and back again as if mapping the social geometry of the group before joining.

Sam caught sight of Andy and made a beeline for him. She wrapped him in a bear hug that squeezed all the air out of his chest, rocking him back and forth on the step. “Morning, Boss Man,” she said, and then, lowering her voice, “You okay?”

He smiled, genuine, and returned the hug with a squeeze. “I’m good,” he said. “How about you?”

She released him, then reached up and tousled his hair. “I loved it,” she said. “Especially after that bonfire. That was… pretty epic, huh?”

Andy nodded, grinning. “Yeah, it was. I didn’t expect Arabella to show up, though. Or stick around as long as she did.”

Sam snorted. “You and me both. I got the weirdest feeling when she was there. Like we were the entertainment, but also… I dunno. Like she wanted to join in, but didn’t know how.” She shot a glance at Liesa, who sat a few steps up, and her cheeks went faintly pink. “But hey, you saw I was a good girl, right? I barely even drank.”

Andy raised an eyebrow. “Not what I remember. You were dancing on the logs at one point.”

Sam flushed brighter, and Andy found himself delighted. “Is that… Sam Collins, are you blushing?”

Sam smacked his arm, then immediately buried her face in her hands. “Shut up. I don’t blush.”

Erin, standing nearby, laughed—her first real, deep laugh of the morning. “It’s true,” Erin said, eyes sparkling. “I’ve never seen you blush before, Sam.”

Sam glared at both of them, then plopped herself down next to Liesa, arms crossed. Liesa looked over, and the two immediately started whispering and giggling, Sam still pink but now smiling with the crooked, mischievous grin Andy had come to love.

Marissa was next. She approached Andy and, with only a moment’s hesitation, hugged him in a way that was gentle but fiercely present. “Thank you for making last night happen,” she said, voice low and soft. “I think we all needed it.”

He hugged her back, and found himself surprised when Marissa lingered. When she broke away, she gave him a look—something unguarded and almost ****—then stepped back and took her place near the front.

Erin came forward, arms open. “Don’t make it weird,” she said, but her smile was pure joy. She hugged him hard, the weight of her body against him somehow both grounding and electrifying. “I slept like a log,” she said, voice muffled against his shoulder. “My Easing a Troubled Heart transformation is legit.”

He felt the vibration of her laughter, then she pulled away, giving him a look that was pure mischief. “I’m never going to let you live it down, Andy,” she whispered. “You sleep-cuddle like a lost puppy.”

He grinned. “You make a great pillow,” he said.

Marissa, overhearing, snorted. “My pillow kept moving,” she said, “but otherwise, ten out of ten.”

Claire, not to be outdone, sidled up and hugged Andy as well—soft, quick, and efficient. She patted his back twice, then held up her notebook, which read:

Slept well. Thank you.

She didn’t smile, but her tail flicked in a satisfied way, and Andy found the simple gesture oddly intimate.

He looked at the three women, then at the crowd as a whole, and said, “Are you guys joining forces now, or is this just a special occasion?”

Marissa’s eyes twinkled. “What if we are?”

Andy, surprised, quickly replied, “Then I’ll see you all in my room for… a discussion.” The three women stared at him, Claire frowning a little, Marissa blushing—blushing! And Erin recovering quickly, grinning. Andy actually laughed. The sound seemed to ripple through the group, infecting even Norah and Emi down on the steps below. For a moment, the air was buoyed by something light and rare.

He took a seat at the top of the semicircle, settling into the throne. The women arrayed themselves on the stools and benches below, forming a half-moon of anticipation and caffeine jitters. It felt like the start of a trial, but nobody here was the accused—not yet.

Arabella emerged from the blinding white of the day, cutting across the sand in a dress that shimmered like seawater. She paused at the threshold of the gazebo, letting the moment hang, then swept in and took her place to Andy’s left.

She surveyed the group. “I see we’re all present,” she said, “and in good spirits. Shall we begin?” Her tone was less regal than usual—almost conspiratorial, as if she’d enjoyed the party and was loath to ruin the mood.

Emi, who’d spent the last ten minutes hunched over her knees, looked up and nodded, her six hands clasped together in a nervous pile. Norah just grunted, but her posture was attentive, and Andy saw the way she kept glancing at Arabella, as if trying to predict her next move.

Chloe, at the far end, sipped her coffee and waited, eyes wide and a little anxious. Liesa, next to her, had one hand folded over Sam’s, their fingers intertwined in a way that looked both accidental and totally deliberate.

Dawn bounced on the balls of her feet, radiating anticipation. She grinned at Arabella, then at Andy, and seemed entirely incapable of sitting still.

Arabella smiled, a real one, and said, “Before we proceed with the transformations, let us welcome the new Contestant joining us.” She let the words hang, and every head snapped up.

A pause. The world seemed to inhale.

For a beat that felt like the entire world had gone on pause, nothing happened. The air hung thick as a curtain; Dawn, for once, was silent. Every woman at the gazebo snapped their heads to the edge of the beach, following the sharp, glassy focus of Arabella’s eyes.

There, standing in the watery shimmer where the sand met the blazing white of morning, was a woman Andy did not recognize.

She was dressed as if the invitation had demanded business-casual rather than swimwear or sundresses: black jeans, a sleeveless charcoal blouse, low black leather flats—wrong for the climate, wrong for the occasion, but worn with such stubborn dignity that Andy felt immediately underdressed in his shirt and shorts. She looked to be about their age, maybe a hair older or younger, her hair a slash of deep red that hung loose and half-shadowed her face. She shielded her eyes against the sun, scanned the gazebo, then made a straight line toward it, as if gravity alone had pulled her into their orbit.

“Who’s that?” whispered Dawn, voice hitching upward.

Emi’s hands all knotted together at once, nerves making her knuckles go white. Even Norah sat up straighter, eyes narrowed.

The woman approached, confusion on her face and a flicker of calculation behind her eyes. Her movements were sharp, precise; she picked her way up the steps with the grace of someone who had never fallen in her life. She stopped just shy of the group, one hand still raised to block the sun.

“Can someone tell me where the hell I am?” she said, her voice clear and surprisingly low, almost a contralto. “I’m supposed to be near Sleepy Hollow, and the last thing I remember is walking into a florist—” She broke off, then scanned the group, her gaze skipping over Andy before landing hard on Arabella.

The Host gave a slow, formal smile, and the light seemed to bend around her. “Welcome, Riley,” she said. “I apologize for the abrupt transition. You are quite safe. All will be explained shortly.”

Andy felt every muscle in his body tense. He watched the new arrival—Riley—catalogue the group. She didn’t flinch at the crowd of women, didn’t gawk at Emi’s extra arms, or Erin’s and Marissa’s significant chests, or Claire’s twitching cat ears and tail. Instead, she took a slow breath, squared her shoulders, and fixed Arabella with a stare that could have burned a hole in stone. There was something odd about her eyes, but he couldn't quite figure out what.

“Am I dead?” she asked, voice matter-of-fact. Perhaps even… relieved?

Arabella’s smile warmed a degree. “Not at all. You are a guest. If you would be so kind as to join the others, I will clarify everything shortly.”

The woman considered this, then gave a short, unamused laugh. She looked at the rest of the group—one by one, gaze lingering on Chloe a second longer than the others—then selected the nearest empty stool and sat with a deliberate, unhurried grace.

Nobody said a word. Even Dawn’s endless kinetic energy seemed to freeze; Chloe’s hands twisted in her lap, her eyes fixed firmly on the boards of the gazebo.

Andy felt, more than saw, the unspoken question pass around the circle: Who is she? Why is she here? And—most pressing—what did she have to do with him?

Arabella waited, letting the silence braid itself tighter, then cleared her throat with a kind of stage-manager’s authority. “For the benefit of our new Contestant,” she said, “I will repeat the order of introductions. Please, as before, state your name and any other detail you wish to share.”

“Dawn Moreno,” said Dawn, lifting a hand. “Hotel front desk. Er, not this hotel, though.”

“Norah Rahman,” said Norah, and though her voice was steady, there was an edge to it, a pride in refusing to elaborate. Riley gave her a look of immediate, almost amused respect.

At the next gap, Sam leaned forward, grinning with **** bravado. “Sam Collins. Coffee shop owner, and, uh, probably the least normal person here.”

Riley nodded. “You all look pretty normal to me.”

Dawn laughed, nervous. “Just wait.”

Emi, nearest the new arrival, picked up the conversation. She waved at Riley with three left hands. Her voice was small, almost a whisper. “Emi Kim,” she said, “children’s book illustrator. Uh, hi.”

Riley nodded, eyes unreadable. Andy blinked. Not even a six-armed woman could pierce that composure, apparently.

The names continued down the line, each woman introducing herself with varying degrees of confidence. Marissa’s was soft but measured, “Marissa Holt, therapist,” and she watched Riley closely, as if weighing her for invisible injuries. Liesa gave her full name in a rush, “Liesa Claes, artist, from Belgium,” and then went instantly red. Claire simply wrote her name on her leather notebook—Claire Freeman—and turned it for Riley to see, her tail coiling protectively around the stool.

When it was Chloe’s turn, she hesitated. “Chloe Ramsey,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Kindergarten teacher.” Her voice trailed off as she risked a glance up, meeting Riley’s gaze for a flicker of an instant. Riley’s expression didn’t change, but her hands curled into tight, white-fisted knots on her thighs.

Erin was last. “Erin Delgado, conservation,” she said, and that was all. Her voice was even, but Andy heard the warning note: do not mess with this group.

Arabella smiled, as if pleased by the roll call. Then, with the deliberate flair of a stage magician, she turned to Andy. “And finally, our Master—Andy Cooper.”

At the name, something changed in Riley’s face. Not fear, not surprise—just a sudden, unfiltered contempt. She let out a breathy laugh, then shook her head, as if the punchline had finally landed.

“Of course,” she said, voice a blade. “Of fucking course it’s you.”

Andy stared, at a loss. “Do I—sorry, do I know you?”

Andy’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, which seemed to please Riley no end. She leaned back on her stool, let her shoulders slouch in a posture that was at once relaxed and hostile, then said:

“Riley Bennett. But you wouldn’t know the married name, would you, Andy?” She spat his name out in a way that gave it a whole new shape, like a coin snapped in half. “It used to be Anderson.”

The silence that followed was surgical. Chloe jerked as if someone had stuck a pin in her; Andy saw her lips part, her eyes go wide, a hand flying to cover her mouth. Around the circle, the other women glanced at each other, unsure whether this was a game, a bit, or a landmine about to detonate.

Riley didn’t wait for recognition. “Thought so. Not ringing a bell? That’s cute. Maybe it’s because you only ever cared about two things: yourself, and Laura. And as for her… well, we all know what you did, don’t we?” She let the name drop like a live wire.

Andy felt the air vanish from the room. He looked at Riley and tried to reconstruct the twelve-year-old he’d met exactly three times in his life. He remembered wild red hair (now a polished curtain), a scratchy voice that argued over games of Uno at Laura’s kitchen table, and eyes that always seemed to look straight through him. The adult version was taller, sharper at every edge, but the stare was the same. The heterochromatic eyes, one green, one brown. How could he have forgotten?

He tried to speak, but Riley rolled right over him. “She’s dead, by the way. In case you forgot.” The words were a hammer. Andy winced, then looked at Chloe, whose face was so white he worried she might faint.

Norah, who had been observing with all the detachment of a **** mystery binge-watcher, cut in: “Whoa, hold on. Who—” She stopped, seeing Andy’s look, and for once just let the sentence rot where it died.

Riley smiled, but it was only a crescent. “I’m the sidekick, the witness. Funny thing about witnesses—they get to remember everything, even when the people who did it prefer not to.”

Andy felt the whole group recalibrate, as if every woman there had just seen the ghost at the center of his story and were now wondering what it wanted.

He cleared his throat. “I… I’m sorry, I didn’t—” But there was no good way to end that sentence.

Riley’s face twisted, not in pain but in a kind of triumph. “You didn’t think you’d ever have to see me again. Or talk about her, ever. But here we are, Andy.” She spread her hands, inviting the world to confirm her thesis. “And I gotta say, you look like you’ve been doing pretty well for yourself.” She cut her eyes toward Chloe. “How’s that for closure?”

Chloe, caught in the blast radius, blinked as if waking up from a long sleep. “Riley, I—” But Riley’s look told her that words, this time, were not welcome.

The rest of the group was spellbound. Even Sam had stopped mid-whisper with Liesa, her arm frozen in mid-air, the playful banter replaced by something closer to awe.

Arabella, for once, had lost the thread of her stage management. She stood at the edge of the throne, eyes narrowed, watching Riley as if trying to decode a language even she had never encountered. Andy tried to meet her gaze, to plead for rescue, but the Host was unreadable.

He turned back to Riley. “Why are you here?”

She shrugged. “No idea. The universe must want me to suffer just a little bit more. Or maybe it wants me to watch you squirm for a while. Not that I care.” The last sentence was so baldly a lie that even the wind outside seemed to pause, waiting for correction.

Andy found his voice. "I'm not… I never meant…" He looked down, then up again, his hands useless on his knees. "I thought you hated me, even before. I never knew you wanted to talk."

Riley gave a short, humorless laugh. "Talk? To you?" Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Laura tried talking to you that day at the bridge. Right before she drowned saving your worthless life. And now you think I want to talk?" She leaned forward, voice dropping to a hiss. "I want you to remember what you did to her every time you breathe."

Emi, ever the peacemaker, tried. “Are you… are you okay, Riley?” The question was gentle, and for a second Riley’s armor buckled, just a flicker.

But she shook her head. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you care. Nobody here does. Let’s just get on with whatever humiliation this place has cooked up for me.”

She looked around at the other women, her eyes a challenge. When nobody spoke, she rolled her neck—the crack echoing like a gunshot in the silence—then stood, dragged her stool away from the group with a harsh scrape, and sat with arms locked across her chest, one leg bouncing like a piston. She glared at the glass of water Arabella proffered her, but took the barest sip of it.

Chloe reached over and squeezed Andy's hand, her touch gentle but firm. Dawn's eyes softened with unmistakable sympathy, while Erin straightened her spine as if physically positioning herself between Andy and Riley's accusations. Norah leaned toward Liesa, whispering "What the hell happened?" but her confusion held no suspicion, only concern. Even Sam, usually so guarded, glanced up from the sand to offer Andy a small nod that said: We're with you.

Claire, who had written not a single word since Riley’s entrance, now scribbled with urgent precision. When she finished, she held the page up to Andy:

What do we do? She is broken.

Andy didn’t answer, but the question hung in the air. He looked at Riley, at the lines drawn so deep in her face they might never fade, and wondered whether he was looking at a warning, a mirror, or just the next tragedy waiting to happen.

Riley held his gaze a moment longer, then looked away, content to let him sweat in the stinging silence.

Arabella cleared her throat, her composure restored by the intervention of ritual. “Thank you for your candor, Riley. As you know, your wish, should you win, will be honored as for the others. If you have questions, you may ask me privately.”

Riley didn’t answer.

The Host turned to the group as a whole. “Very well. We’ll start, then.”