“That’s your Dylan,” I insisted. “Not me. I fell for Karly as soon as I saw her.”

“My Dylan,” Roscoe murmured.

I could tell that he still had his doubts. Around us, night was setting in, which made the dangling lanterns overhead glow brighter. The stained glass deepened into shadows on the walls. We were alone, but even so, I felt a strange shift in the environment around me. The air changed, as if a door had opened and closed somewhere.

“I know you’re humoring me,” I told him.

Roscoe sat where he was, his lips pursed in thought. “Well, it’s a lot to take in, I won’t deny that. For the time being, let’s assume this is really happening to you. That you’re a different Dylan Moran, someone I haven’t met before. If that’s true, where is the Dylan that I grew up with? The one who belongs in this world?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he somehow disappear when you arrived?”

“I have no idea. The other Dylan I told you about—the serial killer—he shared my world, so I can’t understand where your Dylan is. He should be here, too, but he’s been missing for two days.”

“In which case, I’m worried about him.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“I love him. He’s my closest friend. I’m sure your Roscoe felt the same way about you.”

“He did.”

Roscoe stood up from the pew and gave me one of his penetrating stares that meant he was going to say something that I didn’t want to hear. “Dylan, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“If you are who you claim you are, then why are you here?”

“I needed to see you again. To talk to you. I knew if anyone would believe me, you would.”

“Yes, I get that. And I’m glad you came. What I want to know is, why are you here in this world and not your own?”

“I told you. I need to stop this other Dylan. He’s a killer.”

“That’s a job for the police. In any world. It’s not your job.”

“The police don’t know what’s going on. They have no clue. Roscoe, this other Dylan has already killed again. The woman in the park, Betsy Kern. Another woman who looks just like Karly—”

I stopped.

Restlessly, I got up from the bench and paced back and forth in the aisle under the long sweep of the arched ceiling. My sharp footsteps sounded like the crack of bullets. I understood what was happening now, and my terror increased a thousandfold. My doppelgänger was here. He knew I was following him. By killing Betsy Kern, he was sending me a message.

“Oh, my God. He’s going to kill her.”

“Who?”