Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

Epilogue

This is not the place for gloating, but I did warn Ernest his stupid rules were going to get him killed.

How many times did I tell him his real life wasn’t going to play out like a mystery novel? But does he listen to his girlfriend? No. Here’s the proof: first person does not equal survival. Of course you can’t write about your own death, that would be impossible. But a book can finish before the story does. You could get hit by a bus dropping the manuscript off to the publisher. Or, as it just so happened to Ernest, attacked in your hotel room by a woman you’d seen fall off the side of a train four days ago.

I don’t know how Harriet tracked him down, but I do know that’s why Hatch kept him sequestered to first the train, then the hospital and then his hotel room. For protection. Fat lot of good it did. The bodies were hard to find, shredded under the train as they were, but it quickly became apparent that, due to some fluke of physics and airflow, only Jasper had gone under the wheels. Hatch told Ernest they were still finding all the pieces of the bodies. Which wasn’t technically a lie, it was just that there was one big piece they were really missing: Harriet.

So, back to the hotel room. Harriet’s stolen a car, made it to Adelaide and knocked on the door. She’s got blood and dirt caked over her face, two teeth missing, one arm hanging so far from her shoulder it’s like a wind sock on a still day. But her other arm works just fine. Fine enough to grip the knife she’s brought.

Fine enough to stab Ernest right in the stomach.

Be it fate or just miraculous timing, I arrived to an open hotel room door and chaos inside. Harriet was on top of Ern, dead arm swinging like an elephant trunk, her other raised to slash down, screaming that Ern had taken Jasper from her. I’ve never punched anyone before, and I was surprised by how quickly I knocked her out. I also broke four of the bones in my hand. They don’t tell you that in books.

Ern’s not dead, by the way. I got to him in time. I just wanted to make a point. And while it feels a bit childish to rub it in while he’s doped to the eyeballs with two pints of someone else’s blood in him, well, he should’ve thought of that before he accused me of being a murderer.

So that’s really the end. Ern’s awake and talking, but he asked me to write this chapter for him. To sum it all up. I’ve gone in and fixed up his name tally too. Harriet lands on a crisp 106 (granted, five of those are mine) for those playing at home.

One last thing. Sequels aren’t always a disappointment, you know. Sometimes a second go at things is exactly what you need. A chance to fix up the mistakes you made the first time around. Or to ask a certain question twice. I said yes the second time, is what I’m saying.

The reason I did is very simple. I imagine it’s the same reason he asked me to write this epilogue.

Ernest finally told me whose story this was: ours.