It took me no time to cross the street. Like an animal, I bolted up the stairs after him, but when I got to the top, the station was already empty. No one was there. I used my fare card to spin through the turnstile, and when I got to the platform, I ran along the tracks in both directions. There were no hiding places, no way for him to escape.

Even so, Dylan was gone. I could almost hear the echo in my head.

Infinite.

He was done with this world, and he’d left me behind to take the fall. It was another perfect crime.

After I made it back to my car, I drove aimlessly through the downtown streets until I was nowhere near the club. Then I pulled to the curb. There was only one thing I could think to do. I called Roscoe. In every world, when I needed him, he was there to rescue me.

We agreed to meet near the sandy shoreline of North Avenue Beach. It didn’t take me long to get there, and I sat in the car with dried tears on my face and my clothes soaked in blood. The midnight beach in front of me was empty. A stiff cold breeze blew into the car and sent spray over the windshield. I lowered the window, listening to the rhythmic roar of the surf, which went in and out like my wife’s last breaths.

This was my catastrophic reward for trying to be a hero.

The Dylan who owned this life was dead. So was Tai. So was a woman named Betsy Kern.

So was Karly.

I’d destroyed all of them, and the man I’d chased here had already moved on to kill again.

As I sat there, the waves lulled me with a kind of hypnosis. I wasn’t even aware of time passing, but when I looked up, I saw the glow of headlights in my mirror. A car parked beside me, and Roscoe got out. He wore a light-blue windbreaker and casual clothes rather than his priest’s collar. Standing next to the car, he shivered a little and watched the lake, with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He was probably thinking about all the times we’d biked here as kids and hung out on summer afternoons by the water.

Roscoe climbed into the passenger seat next to me. With a single glance, he took note of my condition.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“So I take it that isn’t your blood.”

“It’s Karly’s.”

He adjusted his black glasses and spoke softly. “I’m sorry, Dylan.”

“Thanks.”

“I brought the fresh clothes you wanted,” he added.

I just nodded.

“I heard on the radio about a murder at the Spybar. They said a suspect was on the loose. Was that you?”