She raises her gun.

She fires it into the brick wall, into the mural, into the left dead eye of the woman who not only did such evil in life but inspires even more in death.

The smoke rises like exhaust fumes. For a moment, it looks as if those eyes aren’t dead after all.

“Brea,” McGowan says.

Because she believes she’s her killer. Because, whether the story is fair or not, whether the trauma inflicted upon the little girl explains the actions of the woman, McGowan’s job is to stop her.

But she stops herself, one more moment down here, before leaving. She thinks of Pollen and the journals in the box Principal Taylor gave her. She thinks of an entire city agreeing to remain quiet without actually saying those words.

And she imagines, as best she can, that the woman she faces, the huge blue head on the wall, that this woman is real. That Daphne’s flame is kept alive by the last little girl she took. That Wanda, no, that Brea Delany loved her captor so much, she remains the memory in the communal mind, Samhattan’s mind, with Brea whispering Daphne, Daphne, Daphne…

To all she greets.

To all she meets.

And to all she coaches too.

And in this moment, McGowan thinks there are no lines, crossed or uncrossed, no law, and no breaking it.

There is only navigating the damage that has been done to you and the damage you cause.

Then she’s up the stairs.

She’s out.

She’s running to her car, already plotting the fastest route to the Samhattan High School gymnasium.

Kit stands at the free-throw line, the same line she stood at when she made her winning shot. The tips of her shoes are so close to the paint, she wouldn’t be surprised if a referee called a lane violation. But there is no referee. No other players. No crowd.

Still, a bit of a game.

Kit is asking the rim questions.

Some of them are big ones. Like will her mother live long into old age (she rattled this one in), and then the same for Dad (she missed). Some of them are small.

“Am I done growing?”

She shoots. Misses. As she steps to fetch the rebound, she wonders if the rim is telling her she’s not done growing out, wider, like maybe she’ll gain a lot of weight over time, or maybe even get pregnant. Kit thinks the rim is most likely saying, No, you will not stop growing as a person.

The rim tends to get philosophical like that, especially when your question isn’t a great one.

The best ones are those with no wiggle room for interpretation. Natasha used to say that all questions are open for debate, even the color of someone’s hair. Because, Natasha said, we all see the world differently. At the time, it was one of the deeper things Kit had ever heard her friend say. But she knows there’s much more on her phone right now. Much heavier stuff. A thousand messages Kit will never check.