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By the time that MW heard Mikey’s body slump to the floor, it was already too late. He spun around, hand going for his revolver and then the hunting knife was slitting his throat, as Michael, no, not Michael, it couldn’t be Michael, stared on with a cold indifference.
Where did he go wrong? Where had he lost him? This wasn’t his Michael but when had that changed? Michael had been imploding, under the weight of the dome, and MW could tell, but not like this.
When things had broken bad between Michael and Edgar, MW had chosen to stand by him. He’d been there to comfort Michael through the pain of being separated from Sly. He’d cuddled close to him through the worst of the winter weather. And he’d watched the Michael he knew slowly fall apart, hiding away from him and Mikey, getting more and more violent, snapping at the slightest sign of threat.
But never once for a single moment did MW think that Michael was going to turn on him. Even as he watched it happen, saw his own blood on the knife all he could think was, “This can’t be right. This can’t be Michael.”