He's bracing for a denial, hoping for one, and when her expression goes flat and her eyes turn from ink to flint, to sharp and glittering obsidian, Darlington assumes that's what he's getting. It makes the truth hit harder, when it comes. Alex wasn't left-handed. Hellie was. Hellie died, and Alex lived.

They all died, and Alex lived.

"You killed them," he says, distantly aware he's still holding the garbage bag, slick plastic in numb fingers. "You...used Hellie, and you killed them." He watches her, the bat in her hand the way it must have been that night--or nearly. The dark of her eyes, the swirl of her tattoos. The cold and rigid set of her face. "Tell me I'm wrong, Alex."