“Yes, I did. I can’t imagine my life without her. I finally had everything I ever wanted, and I let it all slip through my hands. I screwed up my whole damn life, and now I can never get it back.”

I slammed my glass down on the bar. Ice and club soda sloshed over the side. I shook my head and dabbed at the spill with a napkin, and I waved away the bartender, who was looking at me with concern.

“You still have that temper, I see,” Roscoe murmured.

I drank what was left of the club soda. “So that’s my story. What happened here? In this world.”

My friend sighed. “Four years ago, on the anniversary of the night your parents died, you came here. You got drunk, and you got into it with a guy who was calling his girlfriend names. You started beating the hell out of him on the street.”

“And? What happened next?”

“The guy hit his head on the pavement. He died.”

“Shit.”

“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.”

I closed my eyes and found it hard to breathe. Under my fingers, the bar was still wet where I’d spilled my drink, and the barest sensation of water made me feel as if I were drowning. “Her name, Roscoe. What’s her name?”

“Karly.”

I still couldn’t open my eyes. I was too angry with myself, too frustrated with my mistakes. The Dylan in this world had learned his lesson before it was too late. He’d changed. Not me.

“Am I happy?” I asked.

“Yes, you are. For the first time I can remember, you’re at peace. Plus, you’ve got—”

He stopped.

“What?”

“I’ve told you everything you need to know.”

“There’s something else. What is it?”

Roscoe shook his head. “I’m sorry. There are things that belong only to Dylan, not you.”

“I’m Dylan.”

“No, you’re not. Not here.”

I dug in my wallet and put money on the bar. “I have to go.”

“Where?”

“Home,” I said.

I began to get off the barstool, but Roscoe grabbed my wrist. For a small man, his grip was like steel. “Do not interfere in his world. He’s come too far to have it ruined for him. You had the same chances he did to turn your life around, and if you regret the choices you made, that’s on you.”

I looked into Roscoe’s eyes, which was a gift I never thought I’d have after I lost him. We’d known each other since we were kids. We’d grown up together, gone through all my struggles together. He was the most decent man I knew in any world, whether as a doctor or a priest.

Somehow I knew this was the last moment between us. I’d had one final little bonus, and now it was over. One way or another, alive or dead, I’d be gone from this world before the night was done. I would never see him again.

At least I had the chance to hug him and kiss him on both cheeks and say a proper goodbye this time.

“I’m not going to interfere in Dylan’s life,” I promised my best friend before I left. “I’m here to save him.”

CHAPTER 30

I stood among the trees of River Park in the twilight. It would be dark soon. The Dylan I needed to kill was here, not far away from me. I could feel him on the other side of a milky cloud. In the same way that he could read my thoughts, I was beginning to read his, too. The last time, he’d been waiting for me inside the apartment, but I saw nothing to suggest that he was there now. Neither was the Dylan who really lived here, and neither was Karly. That worried me.

Whenever they came back, they’d both be targets.

From my vantage in the grass, I could see the whole street. As I stood there, I noticed a gray sedan easing down the block, its lights on. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen it. The car reached the corner and turned, but I had the feeling it would be back. I was right. Less than ten minutes later, I saw it again, retracing its route down the street. This time, it pulled onto the park sidewalk near me and stopped.

A tall man with a skeletal appearance got out. He wore a wrinkled tan trench coat over a white shirt and baggy black pants. He had a casual, stooped walk, but he wasn’t out for a stroll. He headed straight for me.

It was Detective Harvey Bushing.

“Excuse me,” he called, pulling out his badge and introducing himself. “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

“If you like.”

“Do you live around here?”

I nodded at the building across the street. “Yes, that’s my apartment right over there.”

“And your name is?”

“Dylan Moran.”

“Got any ID, Mr. Moran?”

I thought about arguing with him, but I pulled out a driver’s license and gave it to him, and he studied it with careful eyes. When he handed it back to me, he said in his monotone voice, “I’m just curious, Mr. Moran. If you live right over there, what are you doing in the park?”

“Enjoying the evening air,” I replied.

“Well, I’ve been down this street three times, and you haven’t moved. You just keep watching the building. Are you waiting for someone?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s just that most people go for a walk, or sit on the bench, or light up a smoke, or something like that. Not too many people stand there and stare at their own house.”

“Is that a crime?”

“Not at all.” But he was clearly waiting for an explanation, and the longer I made him wait, the more questions he’d ask.

“Look, Detective, I’ve lived in this area for most of my life. My grandfather owned the building, and he used to live in the upstairs apartment. He died a couple of years ago. We didn’t exactly have the best relationship, and sometimes I like to come out here and think about him. Is that okay with you?”

“Absolutely. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

Bushing reached into his trench coat and pulled out a photograph. “Since you know the area, maybe you can help me out here, Mr. Moran. Do you remember seeing this woman around the neighborhood?”

I didn’t need to squint in the diminishing light to see who it was. I recognized the picture from the headline in the Tribune, but that was in another world. It was Betsy Kern.

“No, I haven’t.”

“You sure? She only lives a couple of blocks away.”

“Sorry. I’m sure.”

“Well, she’s missing. She went out for a run in the park last night and never came back home. Her family’s pretty worried about her.”

“I wish I could help, but I haven’t seen her.”

“What about people hanging around in the park? Have you seen anyone who looked suspicious?”

“We get strange characters around here all the time, Detective. But lately? No one comes to mind.”

“Okay. Well, if you see anyone, please give us a call, Mr. Moran.”