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I look at Simon. His chin has fallen toward his chest again. I put two fingers beneath it and lift until his head rests properly against the back of the chair.

“People looked for the others too, Jamie.” I smooth Simon’s hair away from his forehead. It feels different when there’s no counter between us. “Anything else I need to know about Oliver?”

Jamie takes a second too long to answer. “He wanted me to look for keys.”

My fingers tighten in Simon’s hair. “Did you?”

“No.” He says it too fast, then says it again slower, as though the second one needs to count. “I didn’t look. I didn’t even go near your office.”

I turn to Jamie.

He looks offended that I had to ask. “You trusted me.”

Six Jamies before him. This one might live.

I take Jamie’s face in my hand. His skin is warm, and his eyes stay on mine while I run my thumb beneath the dark green makeup. “Good boy.”

His expression softens so quickly that I feel it beneath my palm.

“He said leaving me unlocked wasn’t freedom,” Jamie says.

“What did he say it was?”

“Responsibility.”

“It was responsibility. You were free to disappoint me.”

Jamie closes his mouth around whatever he almost said. I don’t pull it out of him. Good dolls learn which thoughts are worth giving me.

His eyes drop to Simon again. This time he looks longer. “That’s Simon?”

“That’s Simon.”

“He’s fucking huge.”

“He is.”

Jamie looks at me. “Is that what you like?”

“I do,” I tell him.

Behind us, Simon makes a low sound and tries to move one of his legs. The effort gets him nowhere. His head slips sideways again.

Jamie watches me fix it. “How are we getting him upstairs?”

“You wanted responsibility,” I say. “Help me put him away.”

Getting Simon upstairs is harder than getting him into the car. Jamie insists he can take the legs, so I take the shoulders, and the second we lift him out of the wheelchair Simon becomes a sack of wet sand shaped like a man.

“Fuck,” Jamie breathes.

“Drop him and I’ll take the ruler to the backs of your knees until you can’t climb stairs either.”

Jamie hitches Simon’s legs higher against his hips.

Halfway up, Simon surfaces. His eyes crack open and roll toward the ceiling, and one hand comes up to shove weakly at my arm. “M’Ben,” he slurs.

“Not in this house.” I press his wrist back down across his chest and pin it there with my forearm.