I never thought I’d end up here—kneeling beside Gus Moran’s body in an elevator, blood pooling under his collar, an ice pick buried in his neck. The scene matches a passage in Catherine Tramell’s manuscript down to the last detail. I read it days ago, dismissed it as fiction. Now Gus is dead, and I’m the only one who saw it coming.

My hands won’t stop shaking. The department thinks I’m unstable—ever since I punched Nilsen, ever since they pulled me off the case. But I know the truth: someone’s writing this. And I’m in the story.

Elisabeth arrives, breathless, saying she got a message from me. I don’t remember sending it. I think she’s reaching for a gun. I fire.

She falls. No weapon. Just a badge.

Now I’m alone. The rain hammers the streets outside. I can’t trust my mind. I can’t trust my heart.

Then the knock at the door. Catherine stands there, drenched, her eyes dark with something I can’t name.

‘You need me,’ she says. ‘Or you’ll lose yourself completely.’

I know I should arrest her. I know she’s dangerous.

But I let her in.