I close the door and stand in the apartment.

The same. The coat hook, the small pile of mail I haven't dealt with, the kitchen visible through the doorway with last night's pan on the stove. All of it exactly as I left it. I stand in it with my shoes still in my hand and the hair falling into my face and let the sameness settle around me for a moment.

Chapter Two: Reconstruction

Torn from his own world and stuffed into the body of a villainess, facing the end of a doomed route he himself wrote, "Amelia" must navigate a world she really should know - too bad she was never great at worldbuilding.

Stuck in a world she (maybe) created, Amelia quickly finds that reality has filled in the details she failed to describe. The characters who were so flat when she wrote them now have nuance, and motives. The kingdom she wrote into existence is experiencing internal strife she never even thought about. And let's not even get into the complexities of the magic system, or the demon that forced her into this situation to begin with...

Oh, and then there's the fact that she's about to be arrested and executed... but surely she can come up with a way to write herself out of that, right?

...Right?

[Note - this section contains an alcohol-induced gap in Caden's memory with ambiguity around what happens during that gap, referenced later in the story. In case this is upsetting to some readers I'm giving warning here.]

---

The intercom buzzes twice before Hale's voice crackles through — "Who is it?" — the same baritone Caden had heard on a hundred conference calls, smooth as poured bourbon.

"Caden Voss." His voice comes out softer than he intended, vowels rounding at the edges.

A pause. The static hisses.

"Sorry?"

Chapter 5

For the moment, there wasn’t much that Marilyn could do. The two inspectors were making sure that when any tiny bit of information was discovered, it was placed in context and recorded. Everything needed to be kept in eleven murder books, one for each victim, as a trial may just pick one, with the others submitted to the judge before sentencing.

Torn from his own world and stuffed into the body of a villainess, facing the end of a doomed route he himself wrote, "Amelia" must navigate a world she really should know - too bad she was never great at worldbuilding.

Stuck in a world she (maybe) created, Amelia quickly finds that reality has filled in the details she failed to describe. The characters who were so flat when she wrote them now have nuance, and motives. The kingdom she wrote into existence is experiencing internal strife she never even thought about. And let's not even get into the complexities of the magic system, or the demon that forced her into this situation to begin with...

Oh, and then there's the fact that she's about to be arrested and executed... but surely she can come up with a way to write herself out of that, right?

...Right?

I wake before Emily. Grey light, the room quiet. I lie there for a moment and take stock - the lower back ache that's been there for five days is gone. Not reduced, gone. The heaviness behind the sternum still faintly there but lighter, beginning to clear. Something has shifted overnight.

I get up and go to the bathroom.

Chapter 58: Distractions

“Man! I’m bushed.” Tessa flops down onto the couch of the tour bus they have been traveling around in.

“I know what you mean. Between these state fairs, clubs, and bars we have been playing at are taking a toll on me.” Daisy flops down next to Tessa on the sofa.

Nagisa comes walking in with a slight sunburn. She forgot to cover herself in their hurry to get ready for practice and play. She grabs a cold flavored bottle of water from their cooler and presses it against her forehead.

[one week later in Leeds]

“Thanks for meeting me,” said Dora
She had put on one of her ‘Hazel’ outfits, complete with makeup and a long copper wig for the event.

Chapter 2

Marilyn went and stood on Coppergate and tried to visualise the scene. There was something wrong if the carnage was just a byproduct of a targeted hit. The Ram must have been waiting nearby, with a spotter in the Walk. If there was forward planning, the killers had to know, in advance, that the target would be there at that time, which meant a meeting had been set up.

I wake at five-seventeen and lie very still.

Wednesday I woke to the first of it — the small buds, the wider hips, the absence below the waistband. This is Thursday. Whatever the process is, it has not stopped.

I move my hands.

“There’s no room,” I announced. “We’ll have to take it all back.”