Chapter 6
“Harry!”
Emma’s voice tore out of her, raw and desperate. She ran toward the sound, shoes slipping on the damp wood of the bridge, heart pounding so hard it blurred her vision.
Madeline didn’t stop her.
That was the first thing Emma noticed.
She followed the noise to the far end of the bridge, where the old service road dipped toward the riverbank. A car sat crooked against a stand of trees, one headlight shattered, glass glittering across the dirt like spilled stars.
Harry’s car.
Emma stumbled closer.
“Harry?” she whispered.
The driver’s side door hung open. The engine ticked softly, cooling.
Then she saw him.
He was slumped against the doorframe, one hand pressed to his side, blood darkening his shirt. His face was pale, eyes unfocused—but open.
“Oh my God,” Emma breathed, dropping to her knees beside him. “Harry. Harry, stay with me.”
He groaned faintly.
“I—she came out of nowhere,” he said, words thick. “I didn’t see her car. She—she tried to run me off the road.”
Emma’s hands shook as she pressed against his wound, panic surging. “We need to call an ambulance.”
“No,” he whispered, gripping her wrist weakly. “She’s still here.”
Emma turned.
Madeline stood a few yards away, just beyond the reach of the headlights. The moonlight carved her face into sharp planes, her expression eerily calm.
“You should have stayed away,” Madeline said. “Both of you.”
Emma’s body went cold.
“You did this,” Emma said, disbelief and fury tangling together. “You tried to kill him.”
Madeline shrugged lightly. “I didn’t plan for him to stop.”
Harry coughed, a wet, frightening sound.
“Call someone,” he gasped.
Madeline’s eyes flicked to him. “You always did make things complicated.”
Emma reached into her pocket for her phone.
Madeline moved faster.
She grabbed Emma’s wrist and twisted, hard. The phone flew from her hand, skidding into the darkness.
“Stop it!” Emma cried, wrenching free. “This isn’t you.”
Madeline laughed—a short, sharp sound. “You don’t know who I am.”
She stepped closer, and Emma saw it then—the knife clutched in her hand, the blade catching the light.
Harry’s eyes widened. “Mads. Don’t.”
“You chose her,” Madeline said softly. “After everything.”
“She’s hurt,” Harry said. “She needs help.”
Madeline’s gaze snapped to Emma, burning. “She doesn’t need anything.”
She lunged.
Emma reacted on instinct. She grabbed Madeline’s arm, shoving it aside. The knife swung wide—
—and sank into Harry’s chest.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Harry looked down, confused, then back up at Emma.
“Oh,” he whispered.
Blood spread quickly now, too quickly.
“No,” Emma said, voice breaking. “No, no, no—”
Madeline screamed.
She stumbled back, staring at her hands. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean—”
Harry collapsed fully to the ground.
Emma pressed her hands against the wound, sobbing, begging, but she felt it—the awful slackness, the way his breath shuddered and stopped.
Madeline’s breathing turned ragged.
“You did this,” she whispered. “You made him choose.”
She raised the knife again.
Emma looked up, blood on her hands, heart pounding with a strange, terrifying clarity.
And for the first time, she did not feel afraid.
