Torie grinned, her teeth as sharp as her madness. “She’s not who you think she is, Tosh. She writes about everything that happens.” For a flicker, the wildness in her eyes cleared, and he saw the woman he’d fallen for.
Then, her voice dropped to a hiss. “But do you think everything that happens . . . happens by chance?”
He rubbed his temples, trying to hold onto logic. “Torie, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“You never understood,” she said, laughing again, the volume growing, too loud, rolling into something jagged.
He had minutes left—maybe seconds—before the staff stepped in.
“You think this was all fate,” she continued. “But it wasn’t. It was her. She’s the one pulling the strings. She’s the one making the stories happen.”
He barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “Torie—” he said on a sigh as he rubbed his neck. It was already starting to hurt.
“She’s not done yet,” Torie whispered. “She’ll come for you next. Just wait.” Her smile widened, deranged and triumphant. “She always needs a new ending.”
He exhaled shakily. He hadn’t needed to come. This had been a mistake. He’d wanted to remember her before everything fell apart—not this shell, not this madness.
“This visit was a mistake,” he said quietly. “You’re really sick, Torie. I hope you get the help you need. I hope you can one day get well.”
In the observation room behind him, a clipboard shifted. The movement was controlled. Professional. Someone had been standing there only seconds before. Tosh felt watched but forced himself to ignore it.
She stood, moving with a fluid grace that made his stomach twist. “I’m free, Tosh. They think they’ve locked me away, but I’m freer than all of you.” She paused for a long moment, eyes burning. “Because I’m the only one who knows the truth. And the truth doesn’t need permission.”
He didn’t answer. He took one long look at the face he’d once loved—a face so beautiful it had short-circuited him on multiple occasions—a face he now barely recognized. He didn’t bother saying goodbye. He turned and walked away.
Her laughter followed him out, muffled by thick doors but unmistakably gleeful. The only thing that ended the sound was when the thick doors closed behind him.
Outside, Tosh collapsed into the driver’s seat and sat without moving. The wind picked up, whispering through the trees. For a moment, it almost sounded like someone speaking just behind him. Maybe he was beginning to lose it. Maybe they all were.
On the drive home, he called Harmony. Her voicemail played—calm, warm, infuriatingly composed. Even her recorded voice felt like it was listening instead of speaking. He left a message, his voice steady.
“Hey. Just checking on you. Hope you’re okay. I visited Torie today. She said things . . . disturbing things. It messed with my head. I’m trying to shake it off. Anyway . . . call me back. Can’t wait to see you.”
He hung up, then concentrated on the road ahead. He needed to purge Torie from his thoughts. It wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on things he couldn’t control, he couldn’t change.
When he got home, the air felt different—heavier.
There was an envelope in his mailbox. No return address. His fingers were shaking as he opened it. Something told him he shouldn’t—something cold.
But Tosh had never backed down from anything.
He tore the envelope open, fingers trembling. Inside was a single sheet of paper. Just one line, typed neatly in the center.
Every story needs a sequel.
For a moment, Tosh wasn’t sure whether it was a warning . . . or an invitation.
The letters were too clean, too even—like something spat out of an office machine and slid into his life by a steady hand used to filling out reports. Tosh’s heart pounded so hard he felt it in his throat. He stared at the envelope again—no signature. No marking. Nothing and yet everything.
He didn’t know who sent it. He didn’t know what it meant. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty. His life as he’d always known it was over. It was time he accepted that.
Some stories didn’t end.
They simply changed narrators.
Chapter Forty
The Story Must Go On
