Mara woke up at seven eleven in the morning with the absolute certainty that she was dead.
For several seconds, she didn't open her eyes.
She lay there, feeling the mattress beneath her back, the weight of the comforter over her legs, and her own heart beating far too fast. Silence surrounded her, interrupted only by the distant sound of a bus passing on the street and a dripping faucet in some nearby apartment.
None of it fit with death.
The last thing she remembered was the train tilting.
The glass suspended in midair.
The sound of metal coming apart.
And that man.
Mara opened her eyes.
The white ceiling of her bedroom was exactly where it should be.
She slowly turned her head.
The curtains were still partially closed. Her phone sat on the nightstand, plugged into its charger. On the floor, the pair of shoes she'd tossed aside the night before remained in the same place.
Her purse was on the chair.
Mara raised one hand.
Not a single cut.
She ran her fingers over her face, neck, and arms. She touched her ribs, almost expecting to feel one of them breaking through her skin.
Nothing.
She sat up abruptly.
A powerful wave of vertigo forced her to brace one hand against the mattress.
—No.
The word came out quietly.
She got up and went to the mirror.
Her reflection looked tired, but perfectly alive. There was no blood, no bruising, no sign whatsoever that only a few hours earlier, a Tube car had transformed into a steel trap around her.
Mara brushed her hair away from her face.
Maybe it had been a dream.
The explanation was ridiculous and, at the same time, infinitely more acceptable than any alternative.
A nightmare.
An extremely detailed nightmare brought on by overwork, too little sleep, and perhaps the absurd amount of coffee she'd been consuming for weeks.
Her brain had done what tired brains did: taken ordinary things— the Tube, passengers, Cloe, work—and turned them into something grotesque.
That was all.
Mara picked up her phone.
The date was correct.
Saturday.
No messages from the police. No emergency alerts. No news about an accident.
She opened her browser and typed in the station's name.
Nothing.
She searched for “London Tube accident.”
The first result was a three-month-old article about a delay caused by a signaling failure.
Mara narrowed the search.
Accident.
Derailment.
Explosion.
Injuries.
Nothing.
She felt her breathing slow.
It was impossible for an accident of that magnitude not to be all over the news.
If it had really happened, all of London would be talking about it.
She set the phone on the bed.
—It was a dream.
This time, the sentence sounded more convincing.
She went to the kitchen, made coffee, and tried not to think about the fact that she could remember the smell of burning wires exactly.
She tried not to think about the man's face at the other end of the car.
Most of all, she tried not to think about Cloe running along the platform while the train pulled away.
By ten in the morning, Mara was already answering emails.
By eleven, she'd reviewed a document Grayson had sent with the phrase “when you have time,” an expression that, in a law partner's vocabulary, meant immediately.
At eleven forty, her mother called.
Mara let it ring three times before answering.
—Good morning.
—You're working.
It wasn't a question.
Mara glanced at the laptop open on the table.
—I'm at home.
—That doesn't contradict what I said.
—Did you call to police my Saturday?
—I called because you ignored my messages yesterday.
Mara held her mug.
—I replied about lunch.
—You replied with three words.
—How many were necessary?
Her mother sighed on the other end.
The sound was so familiar that Mara felt an absurd wave of comfort.
—Your sister's coming too, her mother continued. —And before you ask, no, your father isn't coming.
—I wasn't going to ask.
—Of course not.
—Mom.
—I'm just saying.
—You've been saying that for fifteen years.
—Because your father has continued to be your father for fifteen years.
Mara leaned back in her chair.
—As far as I know, that's usually permanent.
—Don't make jokes.
—Did you call to discuss my relationship with my father or to confirm whether I'm coming to lunch?
—Both.
Mara smiled.
The conversation lasted another six minutes, most of them devoted to her sister, Sunday lunch, and a detailed complaint about a neighbor who parked badly.
When she hung up, Mara remained staring at her phone screen.
Her mother was normal.
Her sister was too.
The office existed.
The news was normal.
The world hadn't ended.
She began to feel stupid.
There was nothing supernatural about having a nightmare.
The only truly strange part was how much that dream still felt like a memory.
At two in the afternoon, her sister showed up to pick up the black dress.
—This one? Mara asked, holding up a hanger.
—No.
—You said the black one.
—All your dresses are black.
—That's objectively false.
—That dark green one counts as black with pretensions.
Mara made more room in the closet.
—Then be specific.
Her sister walked past her and started searching on her own.
—You're acting weird.
Mara closed her eyes for a second.
—Why does everyone keep saying that?
—Because you're letting me rummage through your closet without threatening to break my fingers.
—I have never threatened to break your fingers.
Her sister pulled out a dress.
—When you were seventeen, you said that if I borrowed your leather jacket again, I'd learn to write with my feet.
—That wasn't a direct threat.
—You'd make a terrible defense witness.
—Fortunately, I'm a lawyer.
Her sister laughed.
Mara watched her face for several seconds.
Nothing different.
No hesitation.
No strangeness.
She knew exactly who Mara was.
The relief came so quickly that Mara got irritated with herself.
—What is it? her sister asked.
—Nothing.
—You made a face.
—I'm starting to think it's hereditary.
After she left, Mara tried to work again, but she couldn't.
Around five in the afternoon, the apartment began to feel too small.
Mara showered, tied up her hair, changed clothes, and stood in front of the mirror for several minutes, deciding whether she really wanted to go out.
Normally, she'd spend Saturday working.
Or pretending she wasn't working while answering emails on her phone.
That night, though, she wanted a drink.
More specifically, she wanted to see Cloe.
The thought came with an unwelcome image: Cloe on the other side of the train doors, running along the platform and screaming her name.
Mara grabbed her purse.
Just one drink.
Maybe two.
Cloe would joke about her deathly expression, Mara would tell her about the nightmare, and within a few minutes everything would seem as ridiculous as it was supposed to.
That was what she needed.
Something normal.
The bar where Cloe worked was in the basement of an old building in Shoreditch, hidden behind a facade that made it look as if the place had closed in 1987.
Inside, it was exactly the kind of establishment Cloe loved: low lights, loud music, expensive drinks, and attractive people making decisions they would probably regret in the morning.
Mara went down the stairs a little after nine.
The bass vibrated through the floor.
She passed a couple arguing near the entrance and two women trying to take a picture in lighting that clearly wasn't cooperating.
Then she saw Cloe.
Behind the bar.
Alive.
Her hair pulled high on her head, glittery eye makeup, a black tank top, and several rings on her fingers as she shook a cocktail shaker above her shoulder.
The relief was so intense that Mara completely forgot she was in public.
She didn't think.
She crossed the bar.
—Cloe.
Her friend turned her head.
Mara smiled and hugged her.
For less than a second.
Cloe planted both hands on her shoulders and shoved her hard enough to make her take a step back.
—Hey! Back off.
Mara blinked.
Cloe frowned.
—Do I know you?
For a moment, Mara only stared at her.
Then she laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was obviously a joke.
—Very funny.
Cloe didn't laugh.
—I'm sorry?
—You can stop now.
—Stop what?
—This.
Mara gestured between them.
Cloe glanced at one of her coworkers behind the bar, then back at her.
—Ma'am, I genuinely have no idea who you are.
A small, cold discomfort rose beneath Mara's ribs.
—Cloe.
—Yes?
—It's me.
Cloe's expression changed.
Not to recognition.
To caution.
—Okay.
—Okay, what?
—You know my name. Congratulations. It's written right here.
She pointed to the small name tag pinned to her clothes.
Mara looked.
CLOE.
She looked back at her.
—Cloe, cut it out.
—Look, if this is some kind of joke...
—You hate olives.
Cloe stopped.
Mara continued before she could think better of it.
—You say it's because they taste awful, but the truth is, it's because your dad forced you to eat them when you were a kid. You lied to your mother about losing your virginity at nineteen. It was seventeen, with that idiot boy named Liam, and you spent three weeks saying it had been “a spiritual experience” until you admitted it had been terrible.
Cloe went pale.
—How do you know that?
Mara felt a small surge of triumph.
—Because you told me.
—I've never seen you in my life.
The triumph vanished.
—We've known each other for nine years.
—No.
—Yes.
—No.
Cloe took a step back.
—You need to leave.
—Cloe...
—I'm serious.
Mara ran a hand through her hair.
This wasn't happening.
—We went to Brighton when you turned twenty-six. You lost a shoe on the beach, tried to convince a police officer you were Norwegian, and spent the next morning crying because you thought you'd lost your purse. It was in the bedroom.
Cloe stood completely still.
—How do you know that?
—Because I was there!
Several people nearby began to look over.
Cloe's coworker set down the glass he was drying and approached.
—Is everything okay?
—No, Cloe answered.
Mara looked at him.
—Yes, it is.
—Mara, right? Cloe asked.
Her own name sounded strange in Cloe's mouth.
Mara nodded slowly.
—Mara Vale.
Cloe looked at her coworker.
—I've never seen this woman.
Something inside Mara gave way.
Very little.
Enough.
—You were on the train yesterday.
Cloe stared at her.
—What train?
—You showed up at the station. You got into the car, and I told you to get out.
—I worked last night.
—Afterward.
—After what?
—After work.
Cloe crossed her arms.
—I left here almost four in the morning.
Mara fell silent.
—You sent me four messages, she said.
—I don't have your number.
Mara pulled out her phone.
—Yes, you do.
She opened her conversations.
She swiped her finger across the screen.
Stopped.
Frowned.
Swiped again.
Cloe wasn't there.
Mara searched the name.
No results.
—No.
She tried again.
CLOE.
Nothing.
Her heart began to race.
—This is impossible.
Cloe watched in silence.
Mara opened her photos.
There were thousands.
Dinners.
Hearings.
Trips.
Birthdays.
Bad pictures taken by her sister.
Even worse pictures taken by her mother.
Mara searched for Cloe.
Nothing.
She opened an album from a trip two years earlier.
She remembered the photograph perfectly.
The two of them stood by the sea, Cloe wearing huge sunglasses she'd stolen from Mara and making an obscene gesture at the camera.
The photo was there.
Mara was too.
Alone.
She zoomed in on the image.
The sea in the background was the same.
The clothes were the same.
Even Mara's pose looked familiar.
But Cloe wasn't there.
—Oh my God, she murmured.
Cloe leaned forward involuntarily to see the screen.
—What?
Mara didn't answer.
She opened another photograph.
Her thirtieth birthday.
The table.
The restaurant.
Her sister.
Her mother.
Two colleagues from the office.
Cloe should have been sitting beside her.
The chair wasn't empty.
A woman Mara didn't know was sitting there.
Smiling at the camera.
Mara felt the entire bar recede.
The music sounded as if it were coming from another room.
—Mara?
It was the first time Cloe had said her name without irony.
Mara raised her eyes.
For nine years, she'd known every expression on that woman's face.
She knew when Cloe was irritated, when she was pretending to be confident, when she was about to make a terrible decision, and when she'd already made one and was looking for justifications.
The face before her showed none of that.
It showed fear.
Fear of her.
—You really don't know me.
Cloe hesitated.
—No.
Mara felt her throat tighten.
—Not at all?
—No.
Her answer was gentle this time.
Almost an apology.
That made everything worse.
Mara put away her phone.
—Okay.
—Are you all right?
Mara looked at her.
The question would have been funny under any other circumstances.
—Perfectly.
Cloe let out an incredulous sigh.
—You don't look perfectly okay.
—It's a recurring condition.
She turned around.
—Mara.
She stopped.
Cloe looked torn between calling security and asking another question.
—How do you know those things about me?
Mara took several seconds to answer.
—I really wish I knew.
She left before Cloe could stop her.
Outside, London continued to exist.
That irritated her.
Cars passed.
People laughed on the sidewalk.
A man argued on the phone near a closed newsstand.
A bicycle nearly hit a tourist.
Everything functioned exactly as it should while one of the most important parts of Mara's life had just disappeared.
She walked aimlessly for several minutes.
Then she stopped beneath a shop awning and took out her phone again.
She searched for Cloe on social media.
She found her easily.
The same face.
The same job.
Photographs of the same bar.
Mara began scrolling down the page.
One year.
Two.
Three.
Five.
No pictures with her.
No comments.
No tags.
No evidence that Mara Vale and Cloe had ever shared a single conversation.
Mara opened her old messages.
She searched for phrases she remembered perfectly.
Nothing.
She searched for Brighton.
There were pictures from the trip.
Mara had gone with colleagues from the office.
Not with Cloe.
That was when she realized what frightened her most.
The memories weren't incomplete.
They had been replaced.
On that phone, in that life, another story had taken up the space where Cloe should have been.
Mara put the phone away before she could feel like throwing it against the wall.
She needed to think.
Facts.
That was what she needed.
Not fear.
Not supernatural explanations.
Facts.
First: she remembered dying.
Second: there was no record of the accident.
Third: Cloe didn't know her.
Fourth: all the digital evidence supported Cloe's version.
Mara crossed the street.
There was a fifth possibility, obvious and unpleasant.
She could be losing her mind.
The idea should have been frightening.
Instead, it brought a certain relief.
Madness was an explanation.
There were doctors for that.
Tests.
Diagnoses.
Causes.
Things that could be named.
Mara liked things that could be named.
She called a car.
On the way home, she stared out the window, trying to find something different.
A building that wasn't where it should be.
A street with a strange name.
A missing monument.
Nothing.
London looked like London.
When she reached her apartment, she locked the door and put her purse on the table.
She went straight to a box on top of a closet.
Inside were old passports, documents, birthday cards, printed photographs, and an embarrassing number of things she kept despite insisting she wasn't sentimental.
Mara began to search.
She found a graduation photograph.
Another of her sister as a teenager.
A card from her mother.
A note from an ex-boyfriend she should have thrown away the day he was arrested.
No Cloe.
Mara sat down on the floor.
The clock on the wall read 11:38 p.m.
She stayed there for several minutes, surrounded by proof of a life that was still hers and, at the same time, wasn't.
Maybe she'd invented Cloe.
Nine years of friendship.
Trips.
Fights.
Three a.m. phone calls.
The time Cloe showed up at her house with a suitcase because she'd ended a relationship and stayed on the couch for six weeks, despite swearing every day that she would leave the next day.
All of it could exist only inside Mara's head.
But then she would have invented the train too.
The woman in yellow.
The boy with the balloon.
The man.
Mara closed her eyes.
She saw his face again.
The impossible calm.
The sadness.
She opened her eyes immediately.
—Who are you?
The apartment didn't answer.
Mara let out a humorless laugh.
—Excellent. Now I'm interrogating furniture.
She got up.
She needed to sleep.
The next day, she'd see a doctor.
Maybe two.
She'd also check the station cameras, transit records, anything that could confirm where she'd been the night before.
And she would find out who the woman in her birthday photograph was.
There was an explanation.
There had to be.
Mara carried a glass of water to the bedroom.
She was setting her phone on the nightstand when she felt the first stab of pain behind her eyes.
She stopped.
She brought a hand to her forehead.
The pain came again, stronger.
The bedroom disappeared.
Mara was standing in front of a glass wall.
No.
She wasn't.
She was seeing.
It was different.
The smell came first.
Burning plastic.
Then the sound.
An alarm.
Screams.
The ceiling of a corporate hallway shook as dark smoke advanced above the lights.
Mara recognized the carpet.
Recognized the glass doors.
Recognized the silver logo on the wall.
Her office.
Lucy ran toward the elevators.
Someone shouted for her to stop.
An explosion shook the hallway.
The glass shattered all at once.
Mara saw her own hand pressed against the floor, blood running between her fingers.
And above it all, a digital clock remained lit.
11:43.
The vision ended.
Mara dropped to her knees beside the bed.
The glass slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor.
This time, it took almost a minute for her to breathe normally again.
When she finally managed to stand, she picked up her phone with trembling fingers.
She opened the calendar.
Monday.
All-hands meeting at the office.
11:30.
Mara stared at the screen.
Then she looked at the shards of glass scattered at her feet.
The fear returned.
Only now, something else came with it.
Anger.
If that was another dream, she would find out.
If it wasn't...
Mara Vale had no intention of dying twice for the same reason.
And this time, she had forty-eight hours to figure out how to stop what was coming.