Air rushes into my lungs. The cry lodged in my throat emerges, and I sound like a wounded animal. I choke and gasp before doubling over. Instead of concrete, I see the living room’s worn carpet and the floorboards that need to be refinished. The scent of Kona blend warms the air, and a hint of lilac sneaks in through an open window. I hold still because if this is an illusion, I don’t want to break it.
Across the room, Malcolm coughs so hard he must grip the mantelpiece to remain standing. Sadie weeps against Nigel’s shoulder. His eyes are damp, mouth a grim line. Darien holds himself rigid in his hardback chair like a man waiting for execution.
“A very different ending,” the entity says. Its voice remains soft as if it has just finished telling us a bedtime story. “Imagine the gossip we
