I paused, staring at Marge with confusion. “Did you say … did you say I died?”
Marge nodded, her grip on my forearm as strong as ever. “Yes.”
“But I’m still alive,” I said, gesturing at myself. “Unless Ashley decides to shoot me with that shotgun of hers—”
“Ashley won’t kill you,” Marge interrupted. “Someone else will, though, and I am not sure you can avoid it.”
“What do you mean?” I said. “Who is going to kill me? And why?”
Marge let go of my forearm and rested her hands on her belly again. “A man I did not recognize. He will come to Rumsfeld, searching for you, and the two of you will fight. He’ll kill you in cold blood, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
An ominous chill ran down my spine. “Who is this man? Where is he from?”
“I don’t know,” said Marge in an apologetic vo
