Standing in the center of the awful room, between the man I’ve been chasing for two decades and three more of his victims, is Cassandra. Her arms are stretched out in front of her. And she’s gripping a gun that’s pointed at Gabriel. And there’s blood blossoming across his chest. Cassandra lifts her aim, just a bit. “This one is for Freya.” She fires. For Freya. A lifetime of guilt and torment unlatches from my soul as I watch the bullet penetrate Gabriel Marcoux’s forehead and blow out the back of his skull. Blood and gray matter spray through the open door behind him. It’s done. The world
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