Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Sequel
Tosh never liked the drive to Atascadero.
The winding road stretched long and lonely through the hills, giving him far too much time to think.
He wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to the visit.
Closure, maybe. Guilt, definitely. Probably both.
And honestly, because unfinished things had a way of rotting if ignored.
Three months had passed since Torie had been escorted out of that courtroom—three months since he’d last seen the woman he once thought he could save. Life had moved on. He’d left the island for a month. Cass and Harmony had gone as well, but they were coming back for a visit next week.
Mary had returned for good and looked . . . lighter. She was freer, somehow. Tosh wasn’t sure why, but whatever she was doing, it was working.
Zach had spent the least time away. He bounced back and forth so often that the island didn’t seem able to cling to him the way it clung to the rest of them.
But Tosh still carried the weight of everything.
He didn’t know if he’d ever put it down.
And some part of him wondered if the deputies, especially Ciscel, would ever stop watching them.
Sure, it was his job, but they’d been cleared.
The responsible person had been convicted.
The psychiatric facility loomed in front of him—white, sterile, humming behind its gates, and far too haunting. It was too still. It was a place where time stalled and never restarted. Even the clocks were silent.
He took a long breath before stepping out of the car.
He walked inside like he was being forced, which he sort of was. He owed this to Torie even if she’d turned into a monster. Who was to say they weren’t all just as bad? Just because they hadn’t acted didn’t change who they were.
Inside, the receptionist handed him a visitor’s badge. The hallway smelled like bleach and lavender—some attempt to soften the edges of horror. Somewhere, a patient hummed tunelessly. Somewhere else, a patient screamed. The combination raised goosebumps along Tosh’s arms.
He couldn’t imagine a worse fate than being locked in a place like this forever.
They led him to a glass-walled visiting room.
Torie sat inside, unrestrained, her hair clean and brushed, her clothes neat. She looked almost . . . normal.
That was, until she turned and saw him.
That smile—too slow, too sweet, too knowing—slithered under his skin. The glint in her eyes was the stuff of nightmares. He knew instantly he’d never want to be alone in the dark with her again.
“Hello, Tosh,” she said, her voice syrupy sweet.
He sat slowly. “You look . . . different.”
“They’re giving me a cocktail of pills multiple times a day,” she said. “Morning, noon, and night. Everything feels dull. I miss the voices. They were honest. They spoke such sweet poetry before the drugs took them away.”
He didn’t know how to react to that. He swallowed. “I guess that’s . . . good.”
“Is it?” She tilted her head, considering him the way a cat considers a dying mouse. She stared long enough that he nearly shifted in his chair.
“I can still see it all, you know,” she whispered. “I see the fire. I see the blood. I see their faces.”
A cold shiver clawed up his spine. “Whose faces do you see?”
She giggled—high, breathy, childlike. “Oh, you know the faces.”
He shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s going through your mind anymore,” he said. Sadness overwhelmed him.
She leaned forward until her breath fogged the glass. Her eyes glittered with delight, as if she’d been waiting for this.
“One face stands out above the others.”
There was a flicker in her eyes then—lucid, sharp, terrifyingly coherent. It lasted only a heartbeat, but Tosh felt it like a blade pressed to the base of his spine. But then she smiled, the look manic. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear anything else. She didn’t wait for him to ask again.
“Her face,” she whispered.
“Who?” Tosh asked.
“Harmony’s,” Torie said at last, savoring the name. “I see it morning, noon, and night.”
Tosh froze, his blood turning to ice. That wasn’t what he’d been expecting.
“Why Harmony?”
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.