AN: Thank you so much for your reviews and your patience with my molasses-in-January updating schedule! Just a heads up that this chapter contains some violence and even more than the usual number of F-bombs.

Thanks to cassiemortmain for some particularly helpful feedback.

The door flies inward in a small shower of wood fragments, thwacking into the wall hard enough to send a picture frame crashing to the floor. The man who kicked it in stumbles forward into the room as though he was expecting it to put up more of a fight, nearly knocking Tom over.

Sybil's rooted to the spot. By the time she's pulled herself together enough to consider flight as an option, the invader—a sinewy little guy wearing a leather jacket that looks like it's been through a war—has gripped Tom firmly by the shoulders and has a vigilant eye on her as well. "Tommy Branson!" He flashes a feral grin that, in the dim light, looks like the Cheshire cat's teeth materializing in thin air. "Long time no see!" The guy stays in Tom's face even as he removes his hands from his arms. His shirt-tail pulls up and Sybil thinks she catches sight of a holster underneath.

"Danny Tierney," says Tom, with none of the other man's fake enthusiasm. "Been a while." He takes a step back, but Danny cocks his head warningly and he moves no further.

"Sorry about your door, there." Danny waves a hand at the splintered frame. "We, ah, we thought since you weren't answering it you might be in need of medical assistance. Can't be too careful out here in the sticks. Turn on a lamp in here, would yez? I can't see a bleeding thing. Ye know, you really ought to have a porch light, I almost busted my arse on those stairs. Fuckin treacherous they are."

Tom doesn't seem to hear him. All of his attention is on the door—or more precisely, on what's beyond it. Sybil's too far back to be able to see who's out there. She switches on the lamp next to the reading chair, throwing the room into warm yellow light and the porch into even deeper shadow.

A man steps into the house.

He doesn't look anything like Tom. He's tall and lithe with narrow eyes and a jawline that could cut glass, his close-cropped hair almost black. Except when he turns his head toward her there's something about the set of his mouth, the cleft in his chin, the way he holds his shoulders. Sybil knows who he is before anyone says a word.

His eyes move over Sybil like she's a piece of furniture. "I didn't realize you'd have company, brother." That's strangest of all, hearing Tom's voice come out of that mouth. Declan's accent is a little broader, but if Sybil closed her eyes, she could almost mistake him for his brother.

"Sybil's on holiday," says Tom, and she can hear the strain. "Her car broke down. I'm repairing it."

"And there isn't a Westin round the corner?" The side of Declan's mouth twists up just like Tom's does when he's said something cheeky, though a mocking lilt in his tone completely changes the color of it. He stares into Sybil's eyes like he's trying to see what's written on her brain. It's deeply unsettling, but she forces herself to hold his gaze until he gives her a grudging smirk.

"Where's the jacks?" Danny asks, brushing splinters off the sleeve of his jacket. He's the only one who seems remotely relaxed. The other three stand stiffly, three points of a lopsided triangle. "I'm fit to burst. The whole way from the coast, not even a petrol station open."

"Shouldn't've had that coffee," says Declan, still not taking his eyes off Sybil. Tom jerks his head toward the bathroom and Danny, nodding, clomps down the hall.

There's a pregnant silence before Tom says, "I spoke to Ma earlier. It slip your mind to tell her you were getting on a plane to Australia?"

"She doesn't need to know everything, does she?" Declan shifts his gaze to Tom and quirks an eyebrow as though they're sharing a private joke.

Tom takes a breath. His eyes slew toward Sybil, full of a message she's pretty sure she can decipher: Don't give anything away. "Er… Sybil, would you mind terribly getting us all a cup of tea?" He does a fair imitation of someone who hasn't ever spent the night with his lips pressed against the side of her neck.

"Erm…" For her part, Sybil attempts to react like she hasn't a clue she's in the same room with a murderer. Act a bit ditzy, maybe. You'd have to be more than a bit ditzy to miss the tension spilling thickly into the air. She gives an uncertain smile. "Sure."

She goes into the kitchen and for good measure Tom calls, "Mugs are just to the left of the sink." Don't overdo it, Tom. She can guess what he's playing at: whatever Declan and his henchman are here for, he wants to leave her out of it. She takes a moment to collect herself, gripping the edge of the worktop with her eyes closed, her breath slow and deep. When she feels like she's in control, she takes the kettle to the sink. "I suppose the Gardaí think you're snug in your bed as well," she hears Tom say over the rush of water.

"Oh, but I've got the judge's blessing," Declan informs him. "The founder and CEO of iDEAS Media has an important meeting with a client in Brisbane."

There's a long pause, during which Sybil mentally cycles through several possible reasons for Declan's trip to Australia, from the benign (he actually is here for a business meeting and thought he'd look up his brother for old times' sake) to the unthinkable. Declan clears his throat. "So you've heard, then."

"Yeah. Congratulations," says Tom caustically. Another silence spins out in the front room while Sybil clanks four mugs down with as much commotion as she can manage. She's so focused on listening that when Tom coughs it makes her jump. "Declan—"

"Aren't you going to ask me to sit down?" Declan interrupts, the floor creaking as he walks across it.

"Be my guest," says Tom, and the sofa springs let out a groan of protest as they take Declan's weight. He's at least six feet tall and, though slighter than Tom, probably weighs as much.

"Have a seat. We'll catch up, will we?"

"I'm fine where I am."

"Sit the fuck down." There's naked steel in Declan's voice. A few seconds later the sofa springs squeak again.

Sybil wonders what would happen if she snuck out the back like Tom told her to do earlier. The way that kitchen door creaks, he'd be on me before I made it outside, never mind to the car. If Danny's armed, Declan will be as well. And the car keys are in her handbag in the bedroom anyway; she'd have to walk right past the front room to get to them. The phone, then. Why didn't she think of it before? It's hanging on the wall, five paces away. She could call 000 and even if she didn't say anything, the police would be here in… oh, maybe half an hour if they hurry.

Better than never, though. She tiptoes across the linoleum, so intent on her goal that she doesn't even notice the toilet's flushed until she hears Danny's footsteps coming down the hall. She freezes, waiting for him to pass into the front room, but instead he saunters into the kitchen.

"Ah, are the grown-ups talking?" he chortles. "We won't disturb them, then, will we?" The voices in the living room have dropped to confidential murmurs, though there's an edge to the consonants that tells Sybil that Tom and Declan aren't just telling each other what they've been up to for the past two years. She gives Danny a tight-lipped smile and turns to drop tea bags into the mugs. "Just what I need," he says. "More to drink. I'd rather have a real drink, yeah? Have you got a beer on the place?" Though their eyes are on a level, his only touch Sybil's for a second before flitting to her chest, back to her face, over her shoulder.

Her stomach curls in something like revulsion. "There's some in the fridge. Help yourself." The kettle boils and switches off and she reaches for it, but his hand whips out, fingers wrapping around her wrist, not quite hard enough to hurt but enough to let her know in no uncertain terms who's in charge here. She calculates the distance to the knife block. If she had to, would she be able to pluck out the carving knife and plunge it into his thigh?

"Looks like you're properly settled in here." He squeezes, his thumb on a pressure point, and now it is a little painful. His unshaven face is only a few inches away; she can smell his sweat and the cloying tang of the cologne he slapped on instead of bathing. Her nostrils twitch. "Unless Tom's got a fondness for fancy face cream and hair goop that smells like flowers."

Sybil studiously avoids looking at the knives and thinks of Tom's tissue-thin cover story, his chivalrous attempt at keeping her safe. Sybil's on holiday. She very much hopes that Declan is only here to put a bit of a fright into Tom, make sure he stays where he is and keeps his mouth shut. But if not, she doubts Declan's going to bother finding out how much of their history she knows. She doubts Danny will care, either.

But if they believe I'm not a threat...

At this point, the best way to be unthreatening is to seem indifferent. If they think she's only interested in saving her own skin, she can look for another chance to call the police. She might even be able to walk out of here with her keys and mobile.

She takes a quick breath through her mouth and gives Danny her best stuck-up bitch look. "Yeah, well, it was taking him ages to fix the car. And he seemed interested and he's not bad looking, so why not?" She glances down at Danny's hand on her wrist and then back up. "That hurts."

Danny snuffs laughter and releases her, eyebrow quirking as he tries to figure out whether she's serious. She has to resist the temptation to rub the touch of his hand off her wrist. "Life gives you lemons, make lemonade, eh?"

Sybil gives what she hopes is a convincingly scornful snort. "Well, I am on holiday. And that couch in the front room's all lumps!"

He shakes his head. His mouth twists up in a decidedly admiring smirk and he says, "You're a piece of work, aren't you?"

Now she's worried that she's gone too far with it. But Danny keeps smiling; he's eating her up with a spoon. He steps even closer and she can't keep from shuddering, but she turns it into a shiver. "You… you aren't going to hurt me, are you?"

"Nah. Stunning bird like you? 'Course not. It'd be a crime against humanity." He leans in until she can feel his hot breath in her ear. "Just be a good girl, and all of this will be over soon."

She doesn't have to pretend to be nervous. "Why are you—" She stops, letting her throat catch. "I suppose I shouldn't ask what you're doing here, should I?"

"Better not, love." He nods to the kettle. "Pour that, will you, and I'll help you bring them in."

She turns away and pours hot water over the tea bags, rather proud that her hands hardly shake at all.

Tom and Declan look up as they enter the room. Tom's face is decidedly ashen, Declan's solemn and a bit wary. Sybil has a split-second vision of herself throwing the hot tea into his eyes. Then she thinks of the holster on Danny's hip, the gun Declan's almost certainly got. You've made a good start, she tells herself. Don't mess it up. She needs them to underestimate her. She needs to keep looking for her chance.

Danny thunks his two mugs down on the coffee table and makes a sweeping motion toward the reading chair. "Sit, love." Sybil perches on the edge while he drops into a squat near Tom. "So how've you been, Tommy? Ashley still asks after you every so often." He gives Sybil a wink and stage-whispers to her, "My sister. They had a thing." His eyes flick to Tom, fidgeting on the couch. "She's after getting married," he tells him. "That gobshite Bryan Murphy from up the road. Treats her like shite, it's no wonder she's nostalgic."

"I'm sorry to hear it," says Tom between gritted teeth.

"Yeah, as we all are." Danny starts drumming his hands lightly on the coffee table. "Oh! And just the other day I saw… what's her name, that girl you fucked for a while after my sister—Julie somebody? I'll tell you, she's still a hot piece of arse—"

"Stop it." Tom bites off the words like he'll start shouting if he says any more. His eyes move to Sybil and Danny drops his jocularity like a mask, bounding up and into Tom's face, all menace.

"What? Don't you like me talking about your exes in front of your new mot?"

Tom's eyes roll wildly between Sybil and Danny. "She's not—"

"Oh, don't even fucking try it, the bathroom looks like bleedin' Elizabeth Arden threw up in it." Danny straightens up and turns to his boss. "Dec, this is a fuckin' complication."

Sybil takes a long, shaky breath. This is going to be harder than she thought.

"Yeah." Declan's voice cuts through like an arctic current. "Because you're trying as hard as you can to make it into one."

Tom turns toward his brother and Sybil has to stop herself from wincing at the look on his face. She pops up, causing everyone's head to whip in her direction. Danny's right hand twitches toward his hip. "Look," she says—loudly, to distract from Tom and the desperate hope coming off him in waves—and raises her hands, palms out. "I'm just on my way to go camping in the mountains. I don't know what I've walked into here, and I don't want to know." She makes herself look at Danny, then Declan, her gaze skipping over Tom Would I look at him? I can't look at him oh Tom I hope you didn't believe that and she breathes in and out and she waits to see if the others did.

She hears a snort of a laugh from her right and something in her chest loosens. "Piece of feckin' work," says Danny, sitting back on his heels. "Tell me, Dec, have you ever seen such a stone-cold bitch in your life?"

"She'll go far," Declan says dryly. There's a spark of admiration in his eyes, drowning in suspicion. But someone like Declan, who only tells the truth when it suits him, is probably suspicious of everyone.

Sybil swallows. Her half-formed plan seems to be more or less back on track, so of course she begins to doubt. What if Declan's not just here to put a fright into Tom? What if, as soon as she's out of sight and before she can even ring the police, he takes out his gun and—

Don't think like that. You've started this, now finish it. She looks at Declan with what she hopes is the right combination of boldness and timidity. "I only want to be on my way," she says, "If that's all right with you."

Stillness falls over the room. It seems to go on forever, with Declan scrutinizing Sybil like a cat trying to decide whether it wants to go to the trouble of pouncing. Before, she couldn't bear to look at Tom; now she daren't, for fear of any messages that might be intercepted.

She knows better than to break the silence. After a minute that feels like an age, Declan cocks his head and makes his judgement with a downward jerk of his chin. "Danny," he says, "help her pack, will ye?"

Sybil scrambles to her feet. "I won't say anything to anyone. I really don't want any trouble. Tom, you know I just don't want any trouble, don't you?" She tries to walk the fine line between being overly apologetic and seeming too nonchalant, but one look at Tom makes her want to crawl into his arms and kiss that sick, stunned look off his face. She makes her eyes slide away, but thinks Don't believe it! at him as hard as she can. Don't believe any of it.

Maybe he senses it. He manages a nod and a quick glance up, even a weak smile. "Yeah. Sure."

In the bedroom, Danny watches her like a hawk while she throws clothes into a bag at random. Fortunately, her keys and mobile are both in her handbag, so all she has to do is sling it over her shoulder. "You're forgetting your face cream," he says mildly when she declares herself ready.

Shit. She didn't even grab her toothbrush. Her mind's already ten miles to the east, where cell service comes back in. "Oh," she says, letting out a high-pitched giggle, "I just want to get out of here. I'm a Scorpio, I can't handle other people's bad juju." Her birthday's in August. Still, the hippy-dippy touch seems to have done the trick, because Danny merely raises an eyebrow and motions her down the hall.

She sidles past the doorway to the front room, hardly daring to glance at Tom and Declan, who are now standing. She's almost to the kitchen when Declan speaks up. "One thing, only," he says, and she can tell from his tone that she's not going to like it. "Your mobile. I'll need you to give it to me."

"What?" croaks Sybil, still half turned toward the kitchen. "Why?" Immediately she curses herself for not saying What mobile? I haven't got a mobile. But Declan's not that stupid. Neither is Danny, for that matter.

Declan lifts a shoulder. Next to him, Tom's eyes are riveted to the floor. "My brother and I've things to talk about. I'd like to make sure we aren't interrupted."

"Interrupted…?" Sybil nibbles at her lower lip, trying to look confused, then allows realization to dawn on her face. "But… if I wanted to call the police or something, couldn't I just drive into town and get them?"

The smile that spreads across Declan's face is almost more chilling than anything else that's happened tonight. "You could," he says, "but by then we'd have a head start on you."

His eyes pin her to the wall, and this is where Sybil understands that the last fifteen minutes have been nothing more than an elaborate game. He's rather enjoyed himself, Declan's look says, but he's tired of playing and now he wants to see if she's bluffing... or if she really is as ruthless as him.

She could take the chance. She could note their car's plate number—if they haven't covered it up—and drive as fast as she can to the police station and say… what? A couple of blokes kidnapped my boyfriend, I've no idea which way they've gone or what they're going to do, but they've got guns! That would probably be enough excitement to get the officers into their cruisers. But the chances of them finding Declan and Danny and Tom before it's too late are almost nil.

Before it's too late. That there will be a too late Sybil no longer has any doubt, not with that sharklike look on Declan's face and the way Danny is shifting his weight from foot to foot, avoiding everyone's eyes. She thinks about this being her last sight of Tom: him in the front room with his head down and his shoulders sagging, not even a look or a word before they part. She thinks about how she'd feel, her own skin saved and Tom… she swallows a wave of nausea.

There has to be a way I can stop this.

Lavinia Swire's death and the loss of her job were a painful blow, but Sybil's optimism runs too strong and deep for any single incident, even one that serious, to keep her down for too long. For as long as she can remember, Sybil's belief in her ability to make change—and the fundamental virtue of humanity—has been nearly unshakable.

People really are good at heart. You only have to give them a chance to prove it.

She walks slowly into the front room. She keeps her gaze on Tom's brother, picturing a candle lit in a still room. It's a comforting image: a strong, steady flame, a beacon of light. Cunning hasn't got her anywhere. Weakness won't, either. All she has left is her goodness and his, if he has any. Give him a chance.

"He's your brother," she says. "Whatever's gone on between you, he's still your brother."

She hears Tom inhale. Declan seems to be holding his breath. His eyes widen a little, and Sybil presses on.

"You don't need to do this. Tom just wants to stay here and live his life."

Declan's gaze is fastened on her, that same disconcerting soul-suck from before. "And you know what my brother wants, do you," he says softly, almost gently.

Sybil nods. "Peace. He wants peace. For himself... and for you." She hesitates a beat before adding the last part, but she really does believe it's true.

Now there's a shift in Declan's expression—a tightening around the eyes, a slight downturn of the mouth—almost imperceptible, but suddenly his face is a mask of scorn. Sybil can feel whatever fleeting hold she had on him slipping away. "I don't know what he's told you," says Declan, "but I'm pretty sure the only thing he wants when it comes to me is to be able to pretend I was never born." The cold eyes glitter with amusement and he starts to turn toward Tom—to do what, Sybil doesn't know, but she feels urgently that she has to stop him.

"He won't tell anyone about what happened," she blurts. Three heads swivel toward her. "Whatever… it was that happened," she amends, lamely. Now you've done it, she thinks.

Danny's eyes nearly pop out of his head, but Declan's reaction is completely anticlimactic. A brief nod, a quirk of the eyebrow; at most he looks mildly amused. Mainly, though, he seems bored. Ready to be done with this stage, and on to the next thing.

That's when she finally gets it. If there's any emotion involved in this at all for him, it's annoyance; maybe a little with himself, for his moment of weakness two years ago, but mostly with Tom, for making him trek halfway round the world to cross off this last, necessary item. Killing his brother is a chore, one he's put off for far too long. As for Sybil, well… she's just in the way.

But she can't give up now. She walks closer, feeling Tom's eyes on her, her heart hammering in her ears. Don't beg, a cold voice urges inside her head, it won't do any good.

She ignores it. "Please." She takes another step closer and looks up into Declan's face, though she can't bring herself to touch him. Probably not a good idea anyway. "Please, don't take him away."

"Sybil," says Tom warningly, leaning toward her. That's all it takes for her to break. She lets out a noise unlike any sound she's ever made before—inarticulate, half whimper, half moan—and she launches herself at him. Sobs beat at the inside of her chest, fighting their way up her throat.

His arms tighten around her quickly, and he doesn't let go. "You have to…" he coughs. "You should go."

"No." Her hands clutch his elbows and she moves back just far enough that she can look up into his face. "No. I can't just let him…" she swallows hard. "I love you."

How still everyone is, as though time has stopped for all of them but kept going for her. Even Tom seems paralyzed, his eyes fixed on hers. She feels wetness on her cheeks; when did she start crying? "I love you," she repeats, her voice breaking.

His eyes widen and for an eternal second she can see it all there, all they feel for each other, naked on his face. If it's possible for someone to look simultaneously ecstatic and terrified, he does. Then his mouth hardens, his hands push her away gently but firmly. His voice comes out too loud: "Sybil, we've had a grand few weeks, but it's time for you to go home."

She barely hears him. She barely feels Declan's hand as it closes on her arm and pulls her away.

"I don't think so, sorry." He says "sorry" as though he's bumped into her in the street, complete with a small, insincere smile of apology, and moves toward the door with her in tow. He almost has to drag her, not because she's resisting, but because she feels as though her knees might buckle. It would appear that whatever plans Declan has for Tom now include her.

Tom steps forward and his hand flies out to pry Declan's off Sybil. As if by magic, Declan has a gun pointed at Sybil's temple. Her mouth goes dry and hot; the air seems suddenly too thick to breathe. Tom steps back fast. "Don't touch me again," snaps Declan, inches from her ear.

Tom raises trembling hands, eyes on the gun. "You can't—Declan, she doesn't know anything, I didn't tell her—"

"I don't give a fuck what you told her." He tightens his grip on Sybil's arm and continues toward the door. "Now, let's go. All of us."

Danny has been silent during the whole exchange, but now he comes up behind Tom with his gun out. He motions to the door with it. "Age before beauty."

Tom looks around, seemingly for a way out, but there is none. His eyes probe Sybil's, flooded with feeling he doesn't bother to conceal. She stares back at him blankly. As raw as her emotions were a minute ago, now she feels as though her brain has gone numb.

Outdoors it's still black, though to the east it's starting to lighten. Parked in the drive is a sleek black four-wheel drive wagon with dark-tinted windows: a rental. Never get in the car is what they tell you in self-defense class. Scream, head-butt, bite, anything to stop your assailant taking you to a second location. Make a scene. But there's no one here to see, and Declan's gun doesn't waver.

Nor does Danny's from Tom. He directs him to the front door. "You drive," he says.

Declan, chauffeur-like, squires Sybil to the seat behind Tom's and closes the door on her when she's in. He walks round the car to get in the back next to her and Danny, in the front passenger seat, shifts his gun to point at Sybil without even seeming to think about it. As soon as they're all settled, Tom puts on his seatbelt, grips the wheel, and glances briefly at Sybil in the rearview.

Danny snaps his fingers in Tom's face. "Hey. Drive."

Tom jerks his head toward Danny as though he'd like to belt him one, but just sighs and turns the key in the ignition. "Which way?"

Declan's the one who answers. "West."

They drive away from the slowly rising sun. Sybil's brain is buzzing so much that for a while she can't even register what's happened. She's more disoriented than frightened, feeling almost as though she's wandered onto a film set; this isn't the sort of thing that happens to real people, in real life. It takes less than an hour to get to Dalby, the largest town in the vicinity, but before half of that's gone by Danny has holstered his gun and found some classic rock on the radio. His relaxed manner just makes the whole situation even more surreal.

The houses grow more frequent on either side of the road, and Declan—still ramrod straight in his seat—nods at Danny's pistol. "Better take that back out 'til we get through town," he says, reminding Sybil that this is, in fact, really happening. "Wouldn't want anyone to get any bright ideas." His eyes flick toward Tom, who's as tense as he is.

Danny shrugs. "You've got yours on his mot, yeah?" He glances back to confirm that Declan does indeed have his gun out and pointed at Sybil, and nods sagely. "He'll be a good boy, then. Won't you, Tommy?" He looks at Tom to see how he's taken that. Not well: even from behind Sybil can see the tightening of his hands on the wheel, the clenching of his jaw. Danny settles back into his seat, all but putting his foot up on the dashboard, and turns toward Sybil with a conversational air. "One thing you can say about our Tom, he takes care of his women. Very so-lici-tous." He grins, chomping on a wad of gum, sending a whiff of spearmint into the backseat.

Declan's no more amused than Tom by that. "Will you take out your fuckin' gun and put it on your guy," he snaps with a long-suffering air. "This isn't a fuckin' holiday we're on."

"Fine, fine, Jaysus," grumbles Danny, but Sybil notes that he moves quickly to obey. "Just having a wee stretch. We've a long day ahead of us."

"You can stretch when we're back in the countryside."

Dalby is a sleepy village compared to Dublin or London, but it's a farming town and as the sun peeks over the horizon they pass a few vehicles: a pickup truck with its bed full of chickens in crates, a grain lorry. The drivers don't even turn their heads as they go by, and the tint on the windows of Declan's rental is so dark that they probably wouldn't see anything even if Sybil did try to attract their attention. But she's not giving up yet. We'll have to stop sometime, she thinks. For petrol, or to use the toilet. There's no way they can make it clear across the country without having the chance to interact with somebody.

Clear across the country. Declan hasn't given them any more idea of their final destination—assuming he knows where it is himself—but Sybil takes it for granted that they're headed for the outback. A steel door in her mind slams shut at the thought of what might be at the end of their journey. If she dwells on that right now she'll turn into jelly. Just think about all the little towns that must be on this highway, she tells herself. All the petrol stations and caravan parks and weird little tourist destinations. Plenty of chances: traffic lights, highway patrol officers, backpackers.

"Turn left up here," Declan barks as they approach an intersection in the center of town. He's got a direction in mind, then.

Tom does a quick glance back. "That's southwest."

"Yeah? And?" Declan's voice has got quieter, which with him is more frightening than a shout.

Tom, however, seems to have no qualms about arguing. "Have you even looked at a map?" He sighs irritably as though they're normal brothers on a road trip, arguing about the best route to take. "You don't want to go that way. There's nothing but—"

"Ahh, for Chrissake," murmurs Declan, more incredulous than angry, and before Sybil knows what's happening he's grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head down so that her cheek scuffs against the rough denim seams of his jeans. She cries out in shock as much as pain. She hasn't had her hair pulled since primary school, and never with this much savagery. The car swerves.

"Just turn… fucking… left." Declan wrenches Sybil's head back up and she grunts as another bright flare of pain shoots from her scalp. By instinct she raises her hands to free herself, her hands beating ineffectually against his. His fingers are wound tightly and she can't get away. There's a hard jab up under her chin: the gun. She goes still. Declan's breathing is a little heavier than usual, but otherwise he seems as calm as ever; as calm, Sybil thinks wildly, as he must have been the night he shot Tom.

He jerks her head down again almost immediately, but she manages to catch a glimpse of Tom's face in the rearview, chalky under his tan. The gun barrel grinds into the fleshy area beneath her jaw. She hardly dares to breathe; what if it went off accidentally?

"OK. OK." Tom sounds like he's only just managing to keep calm. "I'm turning. Let her go." The car rocks a little, coming to a brief stop, then turns. The movement shifts Sybil's body away from Declan and he tightens and twists his hand in her hair, dragging her back toward him and sending a fresh bolt of agony through her. She gasps. "Declan!" yells Tom. "Let her go, I said!"

Another yank, the most ferocious yet. Surely he must be tearing out her hair in clumps. "You feel like arguing with me some more? Let's go. We'll have a little debate, will we?"

"No!" Tom's voice is high and panicky, but the car stays relatively straight on its course.

The iron fingers twist and a sob escapes Sybil's throat. Please stop. Just make it stop. She can feel the plea bubbling to her lips, even though she knows it'll probably hurt more than help, but before she can say it Declan hauls her back upright to make sure Tom can see the gun.

"Maybe we can talk about who gets to clean up the brains, yeah?" Declan sounds almost jovial, like he's high, like he's liable to do just about anything. Sybil forgets herself and pulls away; he drags her back with a little ah-ah-ah noise of mild reproof and gives her hair another hard tug. She's crying openly now, her breath coming in uneven whimpers. Oh God I don't want to die—

"Stop it!" Tom's crying too, or about to. "I'll do whatever you want. Just stop hurting her."

The fear and tension and Declan's mad elation mix together and expand in the car like a cloud of poison gas, and for an instant Sybil is as sure as she's ever been of anything that this is it: he's going to pull the trigger. She squeezes her eyes shut and listens to her pulse thud in her aching head. "Please," she hears Tom say, as if from miles off.

Finally, the hand loosens. Sybil sags with relief, first that she's not dead, then at the blessed absence of pain. Heavenly, not to have one's hair being pulled out by the roots. Declan shoves her away and she narrowly misses bonking her forehead against the car window. She reaches up to assess the damage, surprised when her fingers don't come away bloody. "Next time it'll be more than fucking hair pulling," he barks.

Tom's red-rimmed eyes seek hers in the rearview. "Sybil? Are you OK?" She nods and even manages a watery smile, though it doesn't make him look any less anxious. "Syb?"

"She's grand," says Declan. "You want her to stay that way, you'll do as I say, when I say it."

They drive through Dalby's scant outskirts in silence. Tom clutches the steering wheel, Danny and Declan their pistols, Sybil her composure. It's difficult to keep from crying.

The thought that runs through her mind over and over is: We've got to get away. I don't know how, but we've got to get away. If they don't, they're going to die.

And it's going to hurt.