"There can be no coincidences, no outliers, no mysteries. There are only slices of reality that we, humans, are unable to organize into neat patterns within the bounds of our limited perceptions. The best we get are Chaos Theory and hints at the true way of things. I say to you, gentle reader, mind the hints."

~ The Hermit, Self-Published Book No. 1

"No one wants to read your stupid book, hippy."

~ Zandra, review, Self-Published Book No. 1

The shot hits the floor inches from Zandra's head.

"Cold water and dish soap. Blot with a cloth," Zandra says from the floor after Sunglasses rolls off her body. Her brain scrambles to make sense of the pain shooting up through her back. She focuses on her breathing, labored as it is, to bring her back to center.

"What?" The Crocodile says, still pointing the revolver at Zandra's head.

"To get the blood out of that rug. Should probably start now, alligator. That rug's worth more than your life," Zandra says.

You think this is the first time someone's tried to shoot me? Would I be good at my job if this were the first?

"You think I give a fuck about a stupid rug? I almost shot your fucking face off. I don't miss," The Crocodile says. Zandra can see the revolver is steady in his hand, and that his stance is solid.

Pulse and blood pressure stable from what I can see in his neck. The tattoos can't hide everything. I'll believe he missed on purpose. Fair enough.

"Do you have any idea how fucked you are? The people who own this place, they're not going to be happy about that rug. These aren't the people you want angry, and it's not like you're hard to ID," Zandra says.

Sunglasses coughs and chokes on blood.

Admiring the lawnmower knife, Chad says, "They're selling this place anyway, right? We could flip the rug around. No one would notice, sorta like when the cat barfs on the couch cushions."

"Can we all just shut up about the fucking rug?" The Crocodile says. "You promised money, Zandra. Where is it?"

One shaky limb at a time, Zandra starts to hobble to her feet.

"Back down on the floor," The Crocodile says.

I don't think so.

"Keep the gun, but drop the tough guy act, alligator," Zandra says. She tests putting weight on her bad ankle.

"Stop calling me that," The Crocodile says.

"I'll call you whatever I want, because we both know you're not going to shoot me," Zandra says. "Emile has the money she owes me. I need her to give it to me first before I can give it to you. This isn't complicated."

"Then we're going to the kitchen and you're going to wake her up from her trance or whatever the fuck it is you freaks do," The Crocodile says.

Speak for yourself. You look like you crawled out of a zoo next to a superfund.

"You sure you want to rush it? You could give these weapons back. We could finish eating and we'd all pretend like this never happened. Except for the rug. I'm not paying for that. Your scaly ass won't have anything left after paying to replace it," Zandra says.

The Crocodile squints the vertical slits of his eyes and aims the revolver in the direction of the kitchen. Zandra helps Sunglasses to his feet as well as she can. Hank offers a box of tissues to plug the bleeding from Sunglasses's nose. It takes an oversized wad to stop the flow, but it works.

"You don't mean us, right? We can just hang out here. I don't owe anyone anything," Carter says and polishes off his cocktail with a shaky hand.

"This is not the time to be cute," The Crocodile says.

"Fine, but if it's money you're after, I might know a few things about this place," Carter says.

The plot thickens.

The Crocodile is unimpressed. He says, "I'll deal with you later. Right now, we're all going to go to the kitchen like one, big, happy family."

The group leaves the lounge for the kitchen. Hank drags his feet, pausing by a star-shaped pooling of blood on the floor.

"The Star of Visorius," Zandra hears Hank say in a whisper.

Next thing you know, you'll be seeing Christ in a piece of toast. That's the Star of Pareidolia, Hank.

"Come on, man, don't make me use this thing. I hate knives," Chad says, goading Hank with the lawnmower knife.

Hank follows directions and catches up with the others.

It's quiet inside the kitchen, save for the shuffling of the group. Emile is silent from within the walk-in freezer.

All the better to confuse The Crocodile. He doesn't know where she is.

"She's probably behind that locked door over there," The Crocodile says. "What is that, an old walk-in freezer?"

I had that coming, didn't I?

Chad walks to the freezer door and jiggles the padlock. "It's locked."

"No shit. Who has the key?" The Crocodile says, looking directly at Zandra.

I guess he's not a psychic after all. You'd know to look above the door.

"Don't look at me. He's got the master key," Zandra says and points to Sunglasses.

Sunglasses gargles his throat clear. "There's no way I could've put her in there, if she's in there. I was with The Crocodile and Bexley and Chad the whole time."

Carter stands next to The Crocodile with his arms crossed. He smirks and says, "Zandra was the last one with her."

OK, time to turn the screws. It's getting a little hot in here.

Zandra rubs her temples and says, "She could be anywhere, child. I merely opened the door for her, spiritually speaking."

"This isn't helping you," The Crocodile says. He sucks in through his teeth, sawed into points, in frustration.

Sunglasses, recalling his duty to protect his research subject, tries to cool the situation off. "I've got the one and only master key. I'll try it, OK? Easy there, alligator."

No, you don't.

"Do it," The Crocodile says.

Sunglasses reaches into his pockets, and then pats his chest. "It's gone."

"There must be another one," The Crocodile says.

"Only one, and they gave it to me," Sunglasses says.

Emile screams and pounds her fists from inside the walk-in freezer. It's enough to rattle the padlock. Chad drops the lawnmower knife on the floor, nearly claiming a toe. He's quick to pick the knife back up.

Zandra shrugs and shows her palms. She says, "I don't have the master key, either, but I can assure you I helped her in there."

"Impossible," The Crocodile says. "You're both lying. Whoever has the key, open the freezer. Last chance or I start shooting."

"Isn't it obvious?" Bexley says. She runs her fingers through her hair. "Zandra's psychic powers are real. She used telekinesis, mind over matter."

The Crocodile snorts. Were he less familiar with firearms, he might try to cock the hammer of the revolver for dramatic effect. There is no such hammer, though, on this model of revolver.

"If you put her in there, you can get her out, and get my money," The Crocodile says to Zandra.

If we're splitting hairs here, technically it's a paper check, and that would need to be signed over. Do they let alligators have bank accounts?

"It was an accident. Telekinesis isn't something that can be conjured. It just sort of happens, especially if there might be ice cream inside," Zandra says.

The Crocodile isn't satisfied. He nods to Chad. "Cut her. Cut Zandra."

Chad drops the lawnmower knife once again. He retrieves it from the floor and says, "Cut her?"

"Do it, or I'll shoot your stupid ass," The Crocodile says.

Sunglasses flinches. It's enough to set off The Crocodile, who delivers a balled fist into Sunglasses's gut. Wheezing, Sunglasses takes a knee.

Worst dinner party guests ever.

Chad looks down at the knife and rotates the paracord-wrapped handle in his palm.

"Fucking cut her. Now," The Crocodile says.

Chad takes a step toward Zandra, lawnmower knife in hand.