“Wouldn’t you recognize a stranger in the camp?” Quinn asks.

“No,” I say. “Baalboden was a city-state of thousands. We have only one hundred and—” I can’t complete the number without subtracting the boys lined up on the ground beside us, and I don’t know how to calculate their loss and still sound strong enough to face this. “We have a small group. Many of us had never met until the fires.”

“Well, that just made this more difficult,” Quinn says. “What if it isn’t someone in the camp?”

“Then we’re back to guessing who could possibly have something to gain by killing our first-shift guards and leaving the rest of us alone,” Logan says.

My eyes stray to Donny’s face. His cowlick dances in the morning breeze, and I suddenly find it impossible to swallow. I tear my gaze from him and look at the rock instead. Something mars its pale surface. I take two steps forward and strain to see as the sun slowly spills across the horizon behind me.

“Rachel and I discussed it briefly on our way here.” Quinn’s voice is calm, but I catch an undercurrent of darkness beneath it. He isn’t as unaffected by these deaths as he’d like us to believe. “She said this isn’t the Commander’s style, and we both know highwaymen would have pillaged the camp.”

I take one more step toward the rock as the darkness dissolves into the rosy gold light of dawn, and horror washes over me.

“Agreed. So either we have an unknown enemy lurking in the Wasteland, we have a stranger masquerading as a Baalboden survivor, or it truly was one of us.” Logan’s voice shakes with anger. “If it’s one of us, these boys welcomed their killer because they thought he was a friend. No wonder he’d be worried about blood stains. Along with the wristmarks, we’re about to personally check every inch of clothing in this camp.”

“Logan.” I push his name past lips that feel cold and stiff. “Look.”

Logan and Quinn turn to face the rock, and we all stare at the message painted across the stone in huge, bloody letters.

Your debt is still unpaid. Who will be the next to atone for your crimes?

Chapter Twenty

LOGAN

The funeral is over. Eight graves now lie at the base of the rock, far enough north to be out from under the killer’s bloody message. I said words I hope sounded comforting even though the senselessness of it all scrapes me raw inside. Nola sang Baalboden’s traditional mourning song, her voice breaking as tears flowed down her face. Flowers were gathered from bushes in the Wasteland and laid at the head of each grave.

The air of celebration that filled the camp last night has been replaced with shock and dread. People huddle in groups, holding on to each other as if afraid they might be next.

I’m afraid, too. That’s why I called a meeting with those I know I can trust.

“It’s possible the killer might be someone living in the camp,” I say.

Silence, thick and unwieldy, greets this announcement. I’ve gathered Rachel, Quinn, Willow, Drake, Nola, Ian, and Frankie into a small clearing just inside the tree line on the south edge of camp. We lean against tree trunks and face each other in the sun-dappled gloom.

I trust Rachel, Willow, and Quinn implicitly. And because they once aided me when I was at the Commander’s mercy, I trust Drake and Nola, too. Ian is here because he risked his life for mine, and because he trusted me with his secret. Frankie is here because he also risked his life for mine and because Drake swears that a streak of implacable loyalty lives beneath Frankie’s hot temper. I trust Thom, too, but I’m using him to supervise as our people break camp. Frankie will fill Thom in on the details later.

“Where did you get that idea?” Drake asks, the creases in his forehead deepening as he frowns at me.

“Look around us.” I fling my hand out to encompass the vast forest that surrounds us. “There’s no one here. No Tree Villages. No city-states. No highwaymen camps. Nothing. Plus, the boys didn’t put up a fight. Either they truly didn’t have any warning, or they thought their killer was their friend.” My throat closes over the last word, and I swallow hard. The thought that one of the survivors I’ve sheltered, fed, and protected might have betrayed us like this makes me sick.

“The killer might be one of us, and you didn’t tell the others during the funeral?” Frankie asks, crossing his large, freckled arms over his chest while he stares at me with blatant disapproval on his face.

“No. I told them to be on guard, that we hadn’t caught the murderer yet, but—”

“But they still think the person next to them is safe,” Frankie says. “We have to tell them.”

“And give away the one thing we might know about the killer?” Willow asks.

“I didn’t ask your opinion, leaf lover.”

Willow smiles slowly, and the air shivers beneath her dark gaze.

“She’s right,” I say, glaring at Frankie. “If the killer is one of us, the only advantage we have is that the killer doesn’t realize we know.”

“Are you sure we’re looking for a man?” Willow asks, her slim hand gently tracing a pattern against the worn leather strap on the brace of arrows resting against her back.

“Did you see those wounds?” Drake shoves a hand through his dark silver-shot beard to mime slitting his own throat. “No way a woman would be strong enough to do that.”

“I could,” Willow says. Quinn makes a choked noise and shoots a glare at his sister. She rolls her eyes. “I’m not saying I did. I’m saying I could. We can’t rule out a woman simply because the men in this group can’t imagine the possibility.” She nudges Rachel with her elbow. “We’re just as capable of killing. Tell them, Rachel.”