LENA
I drive ninety miles an hour to the hospital.
The photograph is burning a hole in my pocket. Rafe at the government facility. The same facility that unleashed hell on earth. The same man who claims he's been looking for me, who says he feels a pull toward me, who saved my life at the warehouse.
He will be the reason you die. Again.
My hands grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
I don't want to believe it. But the evidence is right there. Clear as day.
The hospital parking lot is chaos. Police cars. Ambulances. I run through the emergency entrance, flash my medical credentials at the desk.
"Petra Okafor. She was brought in an hour ago."
The nurse checks her computer. "Room 247. Second floor. But Detective Chen wants to—"
I'm already moving.
I take the stairs two at a time. My heart is racing. My mind is screaming. Petra has to be okay. She has to be.
Room 247. I push through the door.
Petra is sitting up in bed. There's a bandage on her forehead. Her left arm is in a sling. But she's awake. Alert. Alive.
Relief crashes through me so hard I almost collapse.
"Lena." Her voice is rough. "You look terrible."
I laugh. It comes out half sob. "You're one to talk."
"Fair point." She winces as she shifts position. "They said I have a concussion. Some bruised ribs. Could've been worse."
"What happened?"
Her face goes dark. "I woke up around three in the morning. Someone was in the apartment. I got up to check and—" She touches the bandage. "That's all I remember. I woke up here."
"Did you see who it was?"
"No. But Lena, they left a message. The detective showed me photos. They wrote on my wall in—"
"I know. She told me."
Petra looks at me. Really looks at me. "This is about you. About whatever's happening. Someone's trying to warn you off."
Or trying to frame someone else, I think. But I don't say it out loud.
My phone rings.
I glance at the screen. Cara.
Of course. Damon must have told her about the divorce by now. She's probably calling to do damage control. To play her role.
I almost don't answer. But then I realize—this is an opportunity.
"I need to take this," I tell Petra. "I'll be right back."
I step into the hallway. Answer the call.
"Lena!" Cara's voice is honey-sweet. Worried. "Oh my god, I just heard. Are you okay?"
I keep my voice neutral. "I'm fine."
"Damon called me. He's devastated. He said you asked for a divorce?"
"I did."
There's a pause. Carefully calculated. "Lena, I know things have been hard between you two. But divorce? That's such a big step. Are you sure you've thought this through?"
Every word is a performance. I can hear it now. The way she's fishing. The way she's trying to get inside my head.
"I've never been more sure of anything," I say.
"Where are you staying? Do you need a place? You know you can always crash with me."
There it is. She wants to know where I am. Wants to keep tabs on me for Damon.
"I'm fine. I have it handled."
"You sound stressed. Have you been sleeping? Eating?"
"Cara." I let steel enter my voice. "I appreciate the concern. But I'm good. Really."
"I just want to help. You're my best friend."
Best friend. The words taste like poison.
"I know," I lie. "But right now I need space. From everyone."
"Even from me?"
"Especially from you."
Silence. I can practically hear her recalculating.
"Okay," she says finally. Softly. Like I've hurt her. "I understand. But Lena? I think you're making a huge mistake. Damon loves you. He's not perfect, but who is? You're throwing away three years of marriage because things got hard."
"Things didn't get hard. I got clear."
"About what?"
"About who I married. And who I can trust."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I hope you know what you're doing," Cara says. Her voice has changed. Just slightly. Less sweet. More edge. "Because once you burn these bridges, there's no going back."
I almost laugh. "Good."
Then I hang up.
I stand in the hospital hallway, staring at my phone. My hands are steady now. Clear.
I open my notebook. Flip to a blank page. Write a new heading at the top: WATCH.
Under it, I write Cara's name in capital letters.
She just showed her hand. She's already working with Damon. Already trying to gather information. Already playing both sides.
In my first life, I didn't see it coming. I thought she was my friend right up until the moment she helped throw me to the dead.
Not this time.
I'm about to go back to Petra's room when a doctor approaches me.
"Dr. Rhys? I'm Dr. Martinez. I treated Ms. Okafor."
"How is she?"
"Lucky. The concussion is mild. We're releasing her this afternoon. But I wanted to ask—do you have somewhere safe she can stay? The detective mentioned concerns about—"
"She can stay with me."
He nods. "Good. She'll need someone with her for the next forty-eight hours. No driving. No strenuous activity."
"I understand."
Three hours later, I'm driving Petra back to my car. Not her apartment. The crime scene tape is still up. We'll get her things later.
"Where are we going?" she asks.
"Hotel. Somewhere nobody knows about."
"Lena, what's going on? Who attacked me?"
I want to tell her about the photograph. About Rafe and the facility. About the warning.
But I can't. Not yet. Not until I know what's true.
"I don't know," I say. "But I'm going to find out."
We check into a cheap motel on the edge of town. Pay cash. Use fake names. The room is small and smells like old carpet, but it's anonymous. Safe.
Petra collapses on the bed. "I feel like I got hit by a truck."
"You kind of did."
"Remind me why we're doing this again? The whole end-of-the-world survival thing?"
"Because in ninety days, getting hit by a truck will sound like a vacation."
She laughs. Then winces. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts."
I'm unpacking our bags when someone knocks on the door.
We both freeze.
"You told anyone where we are?" Petra whispers.
"No."
The knock comes again. Louder.
I grab the knife from my bag. Move to the door. Look through the peephole.
Rafe.
And beside him, a smaller man. Wiry build. Quick eyes. Scar on his left cheek.
My blood runs cold.
I don't open the door.
"Lena." Rafe's voice is muffled through the wood. "I know you're in there. We need to talk."
"Go away."
"I can't do that."
"I said go away."
"Not until you hear me out. Please."
I press my forehead against the door. Every instinct is screaming at me. The photograph. The facility. The warning.
He will be the reason you die.
But then I remember something else. His face in the warehouse. The way he moved to protect me without thinking. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Which version is real?
"Lena," Petra says behind me. "What do we do?"
I take a breath. Make a decision.
I open the door.
Rafe stands there. His eyes lock onto mine immediately. There's something in them. Urgency. Fear.
"This is Jax," he says, gesturing to the man beside him. "My friend. We heard you might need help building something."
I stare at him. "How did you find us?"
"Same way I found you before. I'm very good at—"
"Finding things. Yeah. I remember." I cross my arms. "You need to leave."
"I can't. Not when you're in danger."
"Maybe I'm in danger because of you."
Something flickers across his face. Confusion. Then understanding. "Someone told you something. About me."
"They showed me something."
"What?"
I pull the photograph from my pocket. Hold it up.
His face goes white.
"Where did you get that?" he whispers.
"Someone left it for me. After they attacked my friend. After they warned me that you're the reason I die." I step closer. "So tell me, Rafe. What were you doing at the facility that developed the virus?"
Jax's eyes go wide. "Rafe. What is she talking about?"
Rafe's jaw tightens. "It's not what you think."
"Then what is it?"
He looks me dead in the eyes.
"I was there because I was sent to stop it. I failed. And three months later, the world ended."
The hallway goes silent.
"You knew," I breathe. "You knew the outbreak was coming."
"Yes."
"How?"
His voice is barely a whisper. "Because I'm not from this timeline either. I came back just like you. And I need to tell you something you're not going to want to hear."
My heart stops.
"What?"
"In my first life, I met you on Day Seventy-Three. I knew you for nineteen days. And on Day Ninety-Two—" His voice breaks. "I'm the one who killed you."