Though she was waiting for it, the quiet knock at her door startled Bella.

She put a hand on the doorknob for a moment, forcing herself to answer calmly.

"Yes?"

"It's me—Edward."

She opened the door. Edward slipped inside and shut the door carefully behind him.

"Is anyone else awake?"

"I noticed a few lights under the doors," he murmured, his eyes scanning the room with his usual restlessness.

"There's no one here," she assured him. "I checked."

"Good little secretary."

Bella rolled her eyes. "I'll be just a moment."

Bella went to where she laid out her skirt. She retrieved the gun from the pocket, then took it to the armchair by the fireplace. Edward had already sat down, uninvited, and made himself comfortable.

"All there," she told him, watching as he counted the bullets in the chamber.

"I know."

Edward put the gun on the table by the armchair. Bella did not miss the fact that it was within easy reach of his hand.

"So . . . "

"So?"

"Now what?"

The wolfish grin was back. "I have some ideas."

"Not a chance."

"A drink, then. To send the general off to his great reward."

Edward withdrew a bottle of whiskey from his pocket. Bella suspected he'd swiped it from the drawing room.

Bella went into the bathroom and retrieved the glasses from the counter beside the sink. He held the bottle up for her examination.

"Unopened."

"I know."

The two tapped their glasses together and drank. It felt suggestive to go the bed, but with him in the armchair, there was nowhere else for her to sit.

"Did you like being a nanny?"

Bella raised her eyebrows. "Why do you ask?"

"The boy was your change . . . he died . . . and now you teach at a school."

"Parents don't want careless nannies watching over their children. The girls at my school go home to their families at night."

He cocked his head. "Careless? No. Calculating? Maybe."

"What do you mean?"

Edward sipped his whiskey. "I think you're pretending."

"You can think what you like," Bella snapped. "That child died because of my . . . folly."

"What caused this folly?"

Bella took another gulp of the whiskey. "I don't want to talk about this, Mr. Masen. If you're going to keep it up, I'll have to ask you to leave."

"You called me Mr. Masen again," he mused. "I've crossed a line. I'll stop."

"Thank you."

The two sat quietly for a few minutes. Bella noticed for the first time that Edward was still wearing the shirt and trousers he'd worn during the day.

"Did you forget your nightclothes?"

"I'm on a stakeout."

"Borrowing a tactic from Detective Black?"

"Hardly," Edward scoffed. "He must have his commanding officer over a barrel. I sure as hell wouldn't promote him."

"You don't like many people, do you?"

"In general? No. On Soldier Island? There's one person I . . . enjoy."

"You enjoy taunting me, more like."

"Well, that too."

Bella set her glass on the ground to avoid spilling its contents. She hoisted herself further back onto the bed and put a pillow in her lap, squeezing it tight.

"Did you ever see that Felix Corin picture? New Moon?"

"Yes, I liked it."

"I feel like we're in that strange new world," she murmured. "Like we're going to die here. Trapped."

"I have no intention of dying," Edward told her. "We have to keep our spirits up."

"How do you intend to do that?"

"You already shot down my first idea. The second . . . all right. If you weren't here on Soldier Island, if you weren't a teacher . . . what would you do?"

"Do? For employment?"

Edward nodded.

Bella bit her lip as she thought. "I would . . . sing. You know, at a club."

"I would not have pegged you as a performer."

"Didn't you just say that I was pretending?"

Edward smiled as mysteriously as a sphinx. He was still smiling when she rose to refill their glasses.

"And you?"

"I would be a pianist. I always wanted to study music, to play on a real Steinway . . . never had the money, though."

"If only we had a piano now," she sighed. "We could play something together. Escape this wretched place for a few minutes."

His eyes were on the windowpane that rattled with the force of the storm. "If only."

The sound of the gong jolted Bella from sleep. A panicked voice reached her from the first floor.

"Get up! Get up! Get up!"

Edward was on his feet in an instant, gun drawn. He wrenched the door open with her at his heels.

Ms. Platt, fully dressed in a makintosh, was standing in the doorway of her bedroom. Edward ignored her, racing down the stairs with his gun at the ready.

Bella avoided the older woman's eyes and followed him.

The detective and the doctor were still in their bathrobes. Both looked stricken.

"It's Whitlock."

They found the butler beside the woodshed. It looked as though he had been chopping wood to light the kitchen fire.

Whitlock's body lay where he fell. His eyes were blank and vacant. Several wounds had left his skull and some of his brain exposed.

An ax, dark with Whitlock's blood, was leaning against the door to the woodshed.

Bella turned around and covered her mouth. She could see Ms. Platt and the judge standing in the doorway to the house. Both of them paled when she shook her head.

"I was looking for Whitlock," Cullen whispered. "I wanted coffee. I went looking and I found him like this."

No one spoke. The longer the silence went on, the more frantic the doctor became.

"It wasn't me! I just wanted a damned coffee, it wasn't me—"

Edward lifted Whitlock's arm. It was stiff. His trousers were soaked through from the rain.

"He's been here for hours."

"Seven little soldiers chopping up sticks, one chopped himself in half and then were six," Cullen whimpered.

The detective sighed. "Pull yourself together, would you?"

The judge and Ms. Platt reached them by then. The latter gasped at the sight of Whitlock, clasping her hands together in prayer.

Cullen stared at Bella. "It was you!"

"What?"

"The record! It was called 'Swan Song'! There's no other explanation! You're behind everything!"

"That phrase goes back to the Greeks, Doctor," Judge Vittori murmured. "Just because her surname—"

"It's her. I know it! It makes sense! All I wanted was my coffee—"

Bella strode forward, raised her hand, and struck a blow across his face.

"I trust you're not going to unravel, Dr. Cullen. The very last thing we need is another hysterical man."

The judge thrust his walking stick into the ground.

"Might I ask the ladies to prepare some breakfast? Detective Black and Mr. Masen, if you would be so kind as to put Mr. Whitlock in his room. The doctor and I need to have a word."

Carlisle was squirming with embarrassment. His professional peer had just seen him in an extremely vulnerable state. He realized the vodka he'd choked down in his room this morning did not have the intended outcome.

And to be brought back from the edge by that woman was . . . unconscionable.

"Doctor, let me remind you that we are gentlemen. It won't do for us to go to pieces."

Carlisle forced himself to avoid looking at the woodshed. No, it would not do for him to go to pieces. He had to be calm. Rational, like Vittori.

"Yes, judge," he said meekly. "You're right, of course."

"Remember what we talked about. The time to act is coming. You must conduct yourself like the professional I know you to be."

His chest swelled with pride. Yes. The judge and the doctor had a plan. He needed to stick to it.

"Yes, sir."

His face was still burning from Swan's slap.

"I'm getting really tired of this," Black grunted as the men slowly proceeded up the stairs.

"Not enjoying yourself, Detective?"

"Oh, shut it," the other man hissed. "He's getting all over me."

The butler's body had soaked through the tablecloth and onto their clothes. Edward grimaced.

The two dumped Whitlock on the bed. The bathroom door was ajar, revealing the body of Riley Biers in the bathtub. A handful of flies were circling the rooms, drawn to the house's mounting number of corpses.

The detective coughed into a handkerchief. Edward shut the door against the stench.

"What do you make of this one?"

"Same modus operandi," Edward shrugged. "The killer struck when the victim was alone."

"Know what I'm thinking?"

"Do I want to?"

Black ignored him. His earnestness was almost boyish.

"There was a case in Massachusetts. Old gentleman and his wife, both killed with an ax. Nobody in the house but the daughter and the maid. Maid, it was proved, couldn't have done it. Daughter was a respectable middle-aged spinster. Seemed incredible . . . so incredible that they acquitted her! But they never found any other explanation."

"Are you actually accusing Platt of this?"

"Lots of elderly spinsters go that way! Platt suffers from religious mania. Thinks she's God's instrument, picking us off one by one. She sits in her room, you know, reading her Bible."

"That's hardly proof positive of an unbalanced mentality, Black."

"She was the only one that was fully dressed this morning," he insisted.

Edward thought for a moment. As reluctant as he was to admit it, the detective had a point.

Had Platt been coming or going from the hallway? Edward didn't know.

He did know that she saw him coming out of Bella's room.

It gave them both an alibi, at the very least. And, despite his best efforts to keep the watch, Edward had fallen asleep in the armchair.

He remembered waking up once, in the night, but that had been due to Bella talking in her sleep.

"Well, I'm glad you got bored of suspecting me."

"I did start by thinking of you—that revolver—and the untruths about why you came here. But I've realized now it's a bit too obvious. I hope you feel the same about me."

"Don't take this the wrong way, Detective, but I don't think you have enough imagination for this job. All I can say is, if you're the killer, you're a damned fine actor and I take my hat off to you."

Though covered in blood, surrounded by bodies, and with a crazed killer stalking them, the two men chuckled.

"Just between ourselves, Black, and taking into account we'll probably both be a couple of stiffs before another day is out, what really happened with Crowley?"

The detective shifted from one foot to the other. "I suppose there's no point in hiding it now. Crowley mouthed off and I . . . shut him up."

"Bad luck for you, then."

"Me?" Black asked. "You mean his bad luck."

"Yours, too. Your life is going to be cut unpleasantly short because of it."

"Me? Do you think I'm going to go the way of Whitlock and the rest of them? Not me! I'm watching out for myself pretty carefully, I can tell you."

Edward was in desperate need of a shower and a cigarette. Not necessarily in that order.

"Well, I'm not a betting man. And anyway, if you were dead, I wouldn't get paid."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Your lack of imagination makes you a sitting duck. A criminal like U.N. Owen can run rings around you any time he—or she—wants to."

The detective balled his fists. "And what about you?"

"I've got a pretty good imagination of my own. I've been in tight places before now and got out of them. I won't say more than that but I'll be getting out of here."

Then he strode off to his room and shut the door.

Bella gazed down at the bacon in the frying pan. Her mind was wandering.

"Miss Swan was wonderful. She started off swimming after Colin at once."

Why think of that now?

All of that was over . . . over . . .

Colin disappeared long before she reached the rock. Bella had felt the current take her, sweeping her out to sea. She let herself go with it—swimming quietly, floating—until the boat arrived at last . . .

They had praised her courage and composure . . .

But not Embry. Embry had just . . . looked at her.

It hurt to think of him now.

Where was he? What was he doing?

Was he engaged now? Married?

"Miss Swan, that bacon is burning."

"Oh, sorry, Ms. Platt. So it is. How stupid of me."

Bella watched the other woman moving about the kitchen. She soon realized that Ms. Platt was wearing Mrs. Whitlock's apron.

"You're wonderfully calm, Ms. Platt."

"I was brought up to keep my head and never make a fuss."

"Aren't you afraid? Or don't you mind dying?"

Ms. Platt stared at her. "I lead a moral, upright life. I know the Lord has a plan for me. Of course I'm not afraid."

Breakfast was a curious meal. Everyone was polite.

"May I get you some more bacon, Mr. Masen?"

"Coffee, Detective?"

All six people were acting outwardly self-possessed and normal.

But within, thoughts ran around in a circle like rats in a cage.

What next? What next? Who? Which?

Would it work? I wonder. It's worth trying. If there's time. My God, if there's time . . .

Religious mania, that's the ticket . . . looking at her, though, you can hardly believe it . . .

It's crazy—everything's crazy. I'm going crazy. Wool is disappearing—red silk curtains—it doesn't make sense. I can't get the hang of it . . .

The damned fool, he believed every word I said to him. It was easy . . . I must be careful, though, very careful . . .

Six of those little figurines . . . only six . . . how many will be there tonight?

"Who will have the last egg?"

"Marmalade?"

Six people, behaving normally at breakfast . . .

When the meal was over, Judge Vittori cleared his throat.

"It would be advisable, I think, if we met to discuss the situation. Shall we say in an hour's time in the drawing room?"

Everyone nodded.

Bella began to pile the plates together. "I'll wash up."

The detective smiled. "You ladies prepared the meal. I'm a domestic sort of man. I'll give you a hand."

Ms. Platt rose to her feet, then sat down again. "Oh, dear."

"Anything the matter, Ms. Platt?"

"I'm . . . not feeling well."

The doctor walked around the table. "Quite natural. Delayed shock. I can give you something to—"

"No!"

The word had burst from her lips like an exploding shell.

It took everyone by surprise. Dr. Cullen flushed a deep red.

"Just as you please, Ms. Platt."

Esme went to the living room in search of quiet.

She hadn't meant to make a scene, but the stress of the morning must have been getting to her.

Esme reached for her knitting. She had a dreadful headache, but the work always soothed her, and she hoped the pain would pass.

The needles clicked faster and faster. Her mind had drifted to the Swan girl's question from earlier.

"Aren't you afraid? Or don't you mind dying?"

Dying! She wasn't going to die. The others would die—yes—but not Esme Anne Platt. The Platts were an upstanding family. They faced death unflinchingly, knowing better things awaited them on the other side . . .

Esme had never done anything to be ashamed of in her life. Nothing wicked or sinful. Nothing like the sins of Bree Tanner, or Isabella Swan.

Her face flushed at the thought. The Swan girl and Mr. Masen had been so brazen. That man—that killer—stepped out of her room this morning without a care in the world.

Fornicators, killers, sinners. Esme set her knitting aside and began to pray.

"Ms. Platt?"

Esme opened her eyes. The Swan girl was standing next to the couch with a tray in her hands.

"I brought you some tea, if you're up to it."

"Leave it . . . no, take it away."

"All right," Miss Swan murmured. She turned to go.

"I won't touch anything that you've prepared again."

The girl was defiant. Insolent. "Excuse me?"

Esme's lips pressed into a firm line.

"I've said all along that there was a devil among us. Now I know it's you. You are the Great Whore the Book forewarned us of. God is watching, Miss Swan. I hope he strikes you down next."

The group sat waiting for Esme Platt.

Bella glanced at her watch. "Shall I go and fetch her?"

"Just a minute, Miss Swan."

Bella sat down again. Everyone looked inquiringly at Detective Black.

"Look here, everybody, my opinion is this: we needn't look further for the author of these deaths. I'd take my oath that the Platt woman is the person we're after."

"And the motive?" Cullen asked.

"Religious mania. What do you say, doc?"

"It's possible. I've nothing to say against it. But we don't have proof, of course."

"She was acting very odd in the kitchen when we were making breakfast."

Edward's eyes were on her. "You can't judge anyone by that. We're all a bit out of sorts at the moment."

"There's another thing. She's the only one who wouldn't give an explanation after that gramophone record. Why? Because she hadn't any to give."

"That's not quite true," Bella replied. "She told me . . . afterwards."

"What did she tell you, Miss Swan?"

Bella repeated what she learned about Brianna Tanner.

The judge listened to this testimony with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"A perfectly straightforward story. Did she appear troubled by a sense of guilt or a feeling of remorse?"

Her face was hard. "None whatsoever."

"Righteous spinsters," Black muttered. "Hearts made of flint. Envy, mostly."

"I think we should summon Ms. Platt to answer for these accusations."

"Aren't you going to take any action?" Black demanded.

"I fail to see what action we can take, Detective. Our suspicions are, at the moment, only suspicions. I will ask Dr. Cullen to observe Ms. Platt's demeanor very carefully."

The five found Esme Platt sitting on the couch in the living room. From behind they saw nothing amiss, except that she did not seem to hear their entrance into the room.

And then they saw her face: blank and vacant.

One of the knitting needles was sticking out of her neck.

Dr. Cullen had gone very white.

"Six little soldier boys playing with a hive; a bumblebee stung one and then there were five."

"One more of us acquitted . . . too late."

"Our murderer is a playful beast," Edward murmured. "Likes to stick to his damnable nursery jingle as closely as possible."

His voice, for the first time, was uneven. It was as though his nerves, seasoned by a long career of hazards and dangerous undertakings, had given out at last.

"It's mad, absolutely mad," he continued. "We're all mad!"

The judge was cold.

"There are five of us here in this room. One of us is a murderer. The position is fraught with grave danger. Everything must be done to safeguard the four of us who are innocent. I will now ask you, Dr. Cullen, what drugs do you have in your possession?"

"The same drugs from the first search of my case."

"I have, myself, some sleeping tablets. Sulphonal. I presume they would be lethal if administered in a large dose. You, Mr. Masen, have a revolver in your possession."

Edward's voice was sharp. "And?"

"I propose that the doctor's supply of drugs, my own sleeping tablets, and your revolver should be collected together and placed in a safe place. After this is done, we should each submit to search, both of our persons and of our effects."

"I'll be damned if I give up my revolver."

The judge slammed his walking stick into the floor.

"Mr. Masen, you are a strongly built and powerful young man, but Detective Black is also a man of powerful physique. I do not know what the outcome of a struggle between the two of you would be, but I can tell you this: on Black's side, assisting him to the best of our ability will be myself, Dr. Cullen, and Miss Swan. You will appreciate, therefore, the odds are against you if you choose to resist."

Edward looked from face to face with a near-animal restlessness. Only Bella avoided his eyes, for reasons he did not yet understand.

"Very well. I see that I'm outnumbered here."

"You are a sensible young man. Where is this revolver of yours?"

"In the drawer of the table by my bed."

"Good."

"I'll fetch it."

"I think it would be desirable if we went with you."

"Suspicious devil, aren't you?"

The five marched up the stairs to his room.

Edward went to the table by the bed and jerked open the drawer.

Then he recoiled, cursing.

The drawer was empty.

"Satisfied?"

Edward, stripped to the skin, was fuming. He held a towel over his hips as his person and room were searched by the other four.

The search continued in the doctor's room. Black's room followed, then the judge submitted to the same test.

Now it was her turn.

"I hope you understand, Miss Swan, that we can make no exceptions. That revolver must be found."

"Of course."

Bella went into her room and returned a few minutes later. Three of the men filed past her.

Edward remained in the hallway.

The two stood in silence, listening to the others moving around her room.

Edward's eyes dropped to the robe she had tied around herself. Her shoulders were visible under the straps of a red swimsuit. Her skin looked smooth—soft.

It was like he was back on that train. Edward couldn't look away from her.

Bella stared back at him. Her hands drifted to the belt of the robe.

He watched as the robe opened, revealing more of the swimsuit, and more of her shape. His eyes raked over the lines and curves before flickering back to meet hers.

Something was happening between them. A change in the wind, a shift in the ground beneath their feet.

Edward could almost feel the charge of electricity running down his arm. He thought if they touched, she would feel it, too.

A slow smile was spreading across her face. It was one he had not yet seen from her.

It was sly.

This was a woman who said she did not like being looked at . . . maybe Bella had been right.

Edward didn't know her at all.

Bella lifted her chin in a challenge. Edward tilted his head in response. Both pairs of eyes were assessing the other. Admiring, wanting.

Edward's lips curled into a smile.

There was no more pretending.

"Well, well. Miss Swan. Here you are."

"Mr. Masen."

"Edward."

"Bella."

"Here I am."

"There you are."

The two had reached a mutual understanding.

Edward and Bella, as if pulled together by gravity, leaned toward each other.

Their fizzing tension was broken by the sound of approaching feet. Both sprang apart as if scalded.

The search of Bella's room was complete. The five went back into their rooms to redress.

When they met again in the hallway, the judge cleared his throat.

"We are now assured of one thing. There are no lethal weapons or drugs in the possession of any of us five. That is one point to the good. We will now place the drugs in a safe place. There is a silver chest in the pantry."

The chest the judge was referring to was designed to hold valuable items. The drugs were locked inside it. Then the case was placed in a nearby cupboard and locked.

The key to the chest went to Edward while the other went to the detective.

"You two are physically the strongest. It would be difficult for either of you to get the key from the other. It would be impossible for any of us three to do so. To break open the cupboard—or the chest—would be noisy. It could not be done without attracting attention."

The four nodded. Vittori's authority remained unquestioned.

"We are still faced with one very grave problem. What has become of Mr. Masen's revolver?"

"Seems to me that its owner is the most likely person to know that."

Edward scowled. "Why would I steal my own gun?"

"When did you see it last?"

"This morning. I took a shower after we brought Whitlock's body upstairs. The gun was in the locked drawer."

"Did you lock your bedroom door?"

"No."

"It has to be hidden somewhere in the house," Bella said. "We must look for it."

"By all means. But let us keep together. Remember, if we separate, the murderer gets his chance."

A new search of the house was conducted from the attic to the cellars. Tables and chairs were flipped upside down. Books were pulled from shelves. Rugs and curtains were shaken loose.

Even the bodies of the five dead guests were searched. All they found were flies and maggots.

The revolver was still missing.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I'm loving your comments and theories!