When something rings true, it resonates. Even in someone who doesn’t want to hear it. Even in someone whose very identity hinges on it not being true.

He responded the way I knew he would. Beyond anger, beyond fury. He became absolute wrath.

“You take that back!” His words were that of a furious child, but the way he growled them—with bared teeth and spittle flying from his mouth—he was more like a rabid animal. He now knew I would not bend or be bound. I would no longer contort myself to fit within the crushing curve of his arm.

So he found another use for that arm.

I could see in his eyes the moment he decided he would do it. The moment he chose to become that kind of monster, owning it. Embracing it. Because he couldn’t embrace me.

He brought his arm up across his chest and swung it in a brutal backhanded slam across my face so powerful it spun me around and knocked me to the ground.

For a moment I thought that hit would be enough to hurl me into Elsewhere, but I should have known nothing Layton would ever do could send me anywhere I wanted to go.

That’s when I caught sight of the Edwards. They stood at the edge of the park—all six of them. Whether they were in agreement or not, they were all willing to stand by and watch this happen, a dispassionate jury suspending all judgment.

Then Layton pulled out a gun from his jacket. And seeing that gun made me realize he fully intended to use it. I knew that he was ready to take that final step, becoming the next kind of monster.

“This is on you, Ashley,” he said. “You and me—we were everything. And now we’re nothing. Because of you.”

In that moment, I saw three worlds unfolding:

The world where he killed me and ran away . . . the world where he put the gun in his own mouth and blew his brains out in front of me . . . and the world where he did both. In that moment any of those realities were possible, and not even the Edwards knew which it would be.

But then a fourth world eclipsed the other three. I didn’t see it coming. Neither did Layton.

Paul! I should have known it would take more than the likes of Layton Vandenboom to take Paul out.

As Layton’s grip on the trigger tightened, Paul came up behind him, brandishing the bat, and with all the strength he had left, Paul swung it. The bat connected with the nape of Layton’s neck. I could hear the vertebrae fracture. Layton crumpled to the ground, dropping the gun, and Paul, still dripping the bluest of blood from his own wounds, kicked it away. Then Paul fell to the ground as well, entirely spent, while Layton twitched beside him, gasping for air.