“Macon,” he breathes. “You sent him.” The image of Macon flashes in his mind’s eye, a dead man behind the wheel of the truck, his expression contorted with malevolence. “Somehow . . . you sent him. Or . . . a version of him. A doppelgänger from this reality, or another.”

Victor strokes his goatee as though in contemplation. “It struck me as . . . poetic. Hiring the same mercenary you had. The only difference being that I have a multiverse of Macons at my disposal. One dies, I simply hire another. And another. And another.”

“How did you know?”

“About Macon, or what you’ve been up to?”

“Any of it.”

Victor parts his hands, still smiling. “You hired a team of mercenaries to break into CERN. Suffice it to say, the event made a news site or two. Of course, no one had any idea what you were after or why you disappeared, where you went. To them, it’s all one big mystery. But I found your intentions to be plainly conspicuous.”

“Why?” Jonas’s mind lurches, straining to fathom why Victor would hire Macon to kill Eva, to kill anyone. Whatever Jonas’s and Victor’s issues over the past four years, their conflict never rose to the level of murder. “I don’t understand, Victor. Why would you—you had Macon murder someone. Why?”

“The truth is, I have no desire to see you dead, Jonas. As surprising as that may be to both of us. Macon’s instructions were only to stop you. He just happened to be”—Victor studies the ceiling—“a bit too enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic,” Jonas repeats through clenched teeth. He tastes bile. “A woman died, Victor. Macon killed her.” He hears his voice rising as his finger ratchets out to assault Victor’s chest. “Because of you.”

With surprising speed and even more surprising force, Victor swats Jonas’s hand away and slams him against the galley compartments. Plates and glasses rattle. In the confined space, the sound seems deafening, but no flight attendant comes to inspect what’s going on, leaving Victor free to yank up Jonas’s sleeve, exposing his tattoo.

“This,” Victor says, the word stabbing the air. “This is my work. Fourteen years.”

Their noses are inches apart. Close enough to kiss. Close enough for Jonas to smell the liquor on Victor’s breath.

“Fourteen years,” Victor repeats through gritted teeth, loud enough to draw the notice of another flight attendant. The man enters the galley, and Victor freezes him with a stare.

Still, the attendant manages to croak out, “Sir, your voice is carrying . . .”

“My apologies.” The words come out clipped. Evidently reading Victor’s tone, the flight attendant spins on a heel and escapes.

With privacy restored, Jonas rips his arm from Victor’s grip and allows his own temper to flare. “The board cleared me of plagiarism. The Nobel Committee gave me the medal with absolutely no doubt I had exclusive authorship.”

Mentioning the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences only fuels Victor’s rage. “You wouldn’t have succeeded—not even started—but for my work. Admit it.”

“Victor—”

“Admit it.” Victor jabs his finger in Jonas’s face and snarls, “You wouldn’t even have thought to try to prove the existence of other realities if I hadn’t tried to first.”

“Fine. Yes,” Jonas confesses. What’s the harm? “You’re right.” If Victor is intent on acting like a rabid dog, then the least Jonas can do is throw him a bone.

It’s not enough. “Do you know what it’s like?” Victor asks, his tone dripping with venom. “To work on something for fourteen years, only to watch someone else steal that work out from under you?”

“I didn’t steal anything—” Jonas protests. It’s an old argument, but the fact that Victor’s ire has calcified into an impulse to murder is new and bloodcurdling.

“It destroys you,” Victor says, answering his own question. “It eats away at the core of you. At your soul.” His voice cracks. “I couldn’t work. I couldn’t . . . draw any inspiration.”

Jonas is whipsawed by Victor’s abrupt shift from volcanic rage to self-pity. He stares back, as confused as he is terrified. Victor continues, his voice hollow. “Phaedra left me.” With a shrug, he confesses that he could hardly blame her.

“I know, Victor. I’m sorry,” Jonas says, meaning it.

“I’m not angry. I was a husk of the man she fell in love with,” Victor admits with clinical dispassion. “But then . . . karma. I never really believed in it until two years ago.”

Epiphany—shock and horror in equal measure—punches Jonas. Victor is talking about Amanda. He’s talking about the accident. That this man—this horrible, petty troll—should invoke Amanda’s death is a perversion of irreducible proportions.

“When Amanda died,” Victor continues, “it felt like . . . like the scales had balanced. We’d each lost our loves.”

“Phaedra is still alive, Victor.” Jonas seethes, his body trembling with rage.

“Things were set right. But you—you just couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

“Could you?”

“This is about balance, karma. That’s why I don’t want to see you dead. I just want you to stop.”

“I can’t, Victor. You know I can’t. And you know why.”

Victor shakes his head, his lips curling to a snarl. His nostrils redden and flair. “Just answer me something. One thing. I’m curious. Everyone . . . all of us . . . we all have to live with loss, to get over it. Learn to get over it. But not you.” This last part is offered with an almost scientific fascination. “What makes you different? What makes you so very goddamn special?”

Jonas is at a loss. How can he make sense to a man who’s taken leave of his senses? “Victor,” he says, spreading his hands wide, “I’m just doing what you would do if you were in my situation.”

Victor shakes his head with a violence that reminds Jonas of a child’s tantrum. “No. No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to use my work—my work—to unbalance the universe.”

“No.” Jonas shakes his head. “That’s what you’re trying to do.”

But it’s like he isn’t even speaking. Victor keeps talking, each syllable launching a volley of spittle. “I won’t let you. I won’t. I’ll stop you. I’ll stop you.”

“Victor—”

“Final warning,” Victor says, his finger jabbing at the air. “Stay away from Amanda. Accept the judgment of the universe.” He simmers for a few seconds. “Or so help me God, Jonas, I won’t be held responsible for what happens next.”

Jonas bolts forward, either to rail at Victor, or hit him, or both—he doesn’t know—but the space where Victor stands begins to fold in on itself. For an instant, the small confines of the galley wink with light. And then nothing.

Which is when Jonas starts to shake.

With unsettling urgency, he grasps for a glass and the closest bottle of liquor. He pours a drink and gulps it down. It burns the back of his throat but does nothing against the terror rising within him.

Victor sent the man who killed Eva.

Victor is trying to stop me.

He pours another glass. A flight attendant enters and brews a fresh pot of coffee. She’s talking to him but might as well be on another planet. The entire universe has been reduced to Jonas and the liquor in his hand.

Victor doesn’t want me to reunite with Amanda.

It’s beyond comprehension. It’s irrational. Victor’s affect, Jonas recalls, wasn’t that of a rational human being.

Victor is so envious that he wants to stop me from being with my wife.

Fortunately the liquor starts to take hold. Victor may have taken leave of his senses, but Jonas doesn’t have to. Victor tried to destroy his life once already and failed. This will be no different. At the end of the day, there’s nothing Victor can do to prevent Jonas from being with Amanda. If death itself didn’t stop him, Victor Kovacevic certainly can’t.