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ridiculous.
    â€œLet’s play twenty questions,” Chelsea says. She presses her face up against the glass. “I’ll go first. Are we—”
    Roger puts a finger to his lips, then turns up the music. The orchestra hits a crescendo. He waves his right hand through the air like a conductor, vibrating it on the last note for ten startling seconds. Clearly the guy’s a sociopath.
    Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror and I quickly look away. Focus on the passing desert landscape. I count the sagebrush. Five, six, se—
    Roger’s headlights skim over white bone. A skull. I can see the empty eye socket, the sharp teeth.
    My tongue grows paralyzed.
    â€œCoyote,” Nick says. “There’s a few of them around.”
    Sweat rolls between my shoulder blades. I stretch across Chelsea to crack open the window and a cloud of hot dust blows up in my face. My chest constricts. I can’t get enough air.
    Ahead, a giant building emerges from behind a rolling hill like some kind of sand creature. I lean forward for a closer look.
    Wind and heat have stripped the paint, giving the exterior an eerie sandblasted appearance. Wooden planks crisscross each window and a chain-link fence at least ten feet tall surrounds the perimeter, barbed spikes glinting like razor blades.
    Cautionary signs pepper the entrance: KEEP OUT! PRIVATE PROPERTY! VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED!
    My skin prickles. “What is this place?”
    â€œStay here,” Roger says. He gets out of the car to unlock the first gate. Behind it, another, even more complex lock protects the ramshackle building in the background.
    â€œHoly crap, this place is tighter than Fort Knox.” Chelsea tucks her feet under her butt and peers over the driver’s-side seat. “Looks like an UltraSafe electric strike from here.”
    â€œDoesn’t make sense. Should be a keyless entry,” Mat says. “Unless there’s some kind of wind interference that would mess with the connection.”
    My eyebrows raise. “Electric strike? Wind interference? Is that code for we’re fucked   ?”
    For some reason, this makes Nick laugh. “Nah, they’re just showing off.”
    Roger climbs back into the car, an unlit cigar dangling from his lips. He drives through the first gate and stops at a keypad just inside the perimeter. Four obscured digits later and we’re through.
    My insides twist like a Rubik’s Cube.
    What is this place? Maybe I’ve seen too many B-grade horror flicks, but my imagination has started working up a few bloodcurdling explanations.
    Torture chamber.
    Prison for delinquent teens.
    Morgue.
    Fuck, I hope not. A few years back, Emma and I found half an animal carcass in the field behind one of our foster homes. Bloated. Covered in maggots. The smell of rotting flesh stuck with me for weeks, clinging to my skin like burned motor oil.
    I tamp back a shudder.
    Roger parks the car, tucks the cigar behind his ear, and peers in the rearview mirror, his glasses resting slightly askew on the edge of his nose. A roar fills my ears as every muscle tenses.
    â€œWell then, shall we go inside?” he says, like we’re not body rocking into a scene from Hostel . At our collective hesitation, he grins, and I’m sure my pulse has never spiked so fast. “I assure you, you’re all safe.”
    That’s exactly what I would expect a serial killer to say.
    Irritation leaks into Nick’s voice. “What kind of game are you playing here, Roger?”
    Roger’s response is the sound of the car door closing as he gets out. At the front of the building, he pauses, turns around. Moonlight shimmers on his face and I actually recoil—I could swear his eyes burn red. The image stays with me even as he slides inside the building.
    â€œThis is fucked up,” I say.
    Nick arches an eyebrow. “It’s your fault we’re here.”
    He’s not wrong. Maybe I