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I glance at Henry, who seems to consider and then nods, telling me this is for the best right now. She’s physically uninjured, so let her retreat into shock and disbelief.

He peels off his hoodie and puts it around her shoulders. “We just need to keep her warm.”

“Oh, forget her,” the bartender says. “Everyone does. Or they’re starting to. Same as you, Henry. Have you noticed it? People starting to forget you in the last few years?”

His shoulders tense.

“Oh, you have,” the bartender crows. “How about you, Raymond? People suddenly forgetting you in these past six months? Don’t return your calls. Could swear they didn’t have an appointment with you? And that boyfriend of yours, what’s his name? Bruce? Bryce? He hasn’t been drifting, has he? Losing interest?”

At the sound of his name, Raymond had glanced over, barely interested, as if hearing strangers discuss his golf handicap. But when the bartender mentions his boyfriend, Raymond’s eyes narrow, and by the end, he’s on his feet, stalking toward the bar.

“How do you know Bryce?” Raymond demands.

“I fucked him while you were in the city.”

Raymond lunges, only to go flying backward and land on the floor.

“Oh, I’m kidding,” the bartender says. “Though he is very pretty. But that’s the problem with pretty young men, just as it’s the problem with pretty young women. If you aren’t young and pretty yourself, there’s a tender spot, just between your ribs, where anyone can poke and get a reaction. Don’t worry, he didn’t cheat on you. He would have eventually, but only because he’d temporarily forget he had a lover. He’d feel horrible about it the next day. He really does love you. No accounting for taste, as they say.”

Raymond stays on the floor, blinking as if confused, as if he’d expected more taunts and instead got reassurances, however snarky the delivery.

I walk toward the bar. Henry reaches as if to pull me back, but then just walks with me, staying close enough for me to feel the reassuring warmth of him. The bartender looks meaningfully between us, but doesn’t comment.

“Drink?” he says, lifting a bottle.

“You want us to ask what’s going on,” I say. “Yet you don’t want to tell us what’s going on. So explain the next step.”

When he only lifts a brow, I continue, “I know you’re having fun, throwing out insults and riddles. It must be very satisfying having all the answers and watching the confused humans jump for tidbits.”

“Humans? Are you implying I’m not human?” His skin shifts and slides and blurs and in a blink, he’s a young woman. “There, now I dare you to tell me I’m not human.”

I ignore him and turn to the woman seated at the bar. “Are you human?”

She actually answers. “Yes. And no.”

“More riddles,” Raymond says, getting to his feet. When he comes for the woman, I lift a hand to stop him.

“Human and yet not human,” I say. “Are you dead?”

She turns then, her gaze coming to rest on mine. “Yes.”

“Did we kill you? One of us? Is that what this is about?”

The bartender makes a buzzer noise. “Try again.”

She settles her stare on him, but he only grins back.

“Isn’t this fun, Maggie?” he says. “The big reveal. Where our stalwart detectives finally solve the case, and figure out whodunit.” He leans over the bar and stage-whispers. “It’s her. She-dun-it. Or should I say she didn’t do it, which is the problem.”

“I was supposed to kill you,” the woman—Maggie—says.

“Me?” I say.

“All of you.” She straightens and looks from Henry to Raymond to Noemi. “The boy, too. Caleb. And the old man who died. The professor. His name was Edgar.”

“You were supposed to kill us tonight?” Raymond says, but deep down, I know the answer. I feel as if I’ve always known it.

I’ve been living on borrowed time since I was ten years old.