“You pleaded guilty to involuntary manslaughter. Your lawyer argued for probation because of your family background. He said what happened to your mother triggered a kind of psychological fixation with defending a woman who was in danger, and that the man’s death was accidental. The judge wasn’t impressed. You’d been in fights before, so he said you were aware of the risks. He gave you a sentence of two to five years.”

“Sounds like I deserved it.”

“Yes, that’s what you said. You didn’t even appeal the sentence. You went to prison and did eighteen months before you got paroled. It was rough for you. I know it was. But honestly, you became a new man. When you got out, you turned your life around. You went to AA and haven’t had a drink since. You go to counseling every month. You found a job at a nonprofit focused on affordable housing, and within a year, you were running the place. You even managed to come to terms with Edgar. You apologized for all the crap you’d dealt him over the years. You thanked him for taking you in as a kid. The two of you had breakfast every morning during his last three months.”

“Edgar died?” I asked.

“Yeah. Heart attack in his sleep.”

I felt an unexpected wave of grief. Edgar. My grandfather. My last family member. Dead.

In my own world, Edgar was still alive, but I didn’t know whether I’d ever see that world again. For the first time, I confronted the idea of him not being there. I had a vision of myself standing in front of Nighthawks, wishing Edgar was there to tell me the story of Daniel Catton Rich. Roscoe was right. There were things I should have said to him when I had the chance.

Even without knowing the Dylan Moran in this world, I realized he was living his life better than me.

I had to know more about him.

“Am I married?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I mean, in this world, there was no accident. You didn’t die. Karly didn’t find me in the car.”

Roscoe stared into his drink and wrestled with what to tell me. “After Edgar died, you brought in a contractor to work on the upstairs apartment so you could rent it out. The two of you became friends.”

“Scotty,” I guessed. “Scotty Ryan.”

“That’s right. He did a lot of work for a realtor he thought would be perfect for you, so he set the two of you up on a blind date. You hated the idea, but I pushed you to go. You went dancing at the Spybar, and it was love at first sight. Six months later, you were married.”