Mara woke up before she felt the pain. Maybe because her body was waiting for it.
She opened her eyes all at once and inhaled so deeply that the air burned her lungs. For several seconds, she remained motionless, hands clutching the sheet, waiting for the impact that never came.
No fire. No smoke. The floor was still beneath the bed.
She turned her face toward the clock. 6:12 a.m. Tuesday.
Mara closed her eyes.
—Twice.
Her own voice sounded strange in the silent bedroom.
There was no longer any comfortable way to call it a nightmare.
She remembered dying on the Tube. Then she had woken up here. She remembered dying in the office. And now she was here again.
Two deaths were not a sleep disorder.
Mara pushed off the comforter and stood.
The first thing she did was look for blood. Arms, hands, legs. Nothing.
She went to the bathroom and lifted her shirt in front of the mirror. The skin where there should have been cuts, burns, and bruises was intact.
She touched the side of her face.
She could still remember the heat of the explosion. The taste of dust. The blood beneath her palm. And him.
The same man.
The first time could have been a coincidence, if Mara had still been willing to insult her own intelligence.
The second wasn't.
She turned on the faucet, cupped her hands full of cold water, and pressed them to her face.
When she looked in the mirror again, there was something different in her eyes.
Fear, certainly.
But anger too.
—Right.
She picked up her phone.
This time, she didn't look for the news immediately.
She called her sister.
It rang twice.
—You know it's six in the morning, right?
Mara braced one hand against the sink.
—What's my name?
Silence.
—What?
—My name.
—You woke me up to ask me your own name?
Mara exhaled slowly.
—Answer me.
—Mara Vale. Thirty-one years old. Lawyer. Controlling. Psychologically incapable of texting after ten at night instead of calling at six in the morning.
Mara closed her eyes.
—Thank you.
—Are you drunk?
—No.
—Drugs?
—Those either.
—Then it's worse.
—Go back to sleep.
—Mara.
She hung up.
For several seconds, she held the phone.
Her sister still knew her.
She opened her conversation with her mother.
It was there.
Her conversation with her father was there too.
Colleagues. Clients. Grayson. Lucy.
Mara hesitated before typing the name she already knew she wouldn't find.
Cloe.
No conversation.
It was the same absence as in the previous world.
Or almost the same.
Mara opened social media.
Cloe existed.
Her profile picture was different. Her hair was shorter, and there was a small nose ring Mara had never seen her wear.
She still worked at the same bar in Shoreditch. She still had an absurd number of photos taken after midnight. She still had no apparent connection whatsoever to Mara Vale.
Mara stared at the screen for several seconds, then locked it.
That could wait.
The man couldn't.
By seven twenty, Mara had searched everything she could remember about the office accident.
There had been no accident.
The Canary Wharf building was intact. No explosion. No evacuation. No deaths. No news.
The office's official page normally announced a lecture on international arbitration for Thursday.
Mara opened the team section.
Her face was there.
Mara Vale — Senior Associate, Commercial Litigation.
She leaned toward the screen.
Read it again.
Senior Associate.
—No.
She opened a cached version.
The same thing.
She went to the bookcase, pulled out a file folder where she kept her professional documents, and found her contract.
The position was there.
Senior Associate.
Mara knew that document. She remembered perfectly signing a contract amendment eleven months earlier, after leading a corporate dispute the office had considered impossible to win.
That promotion wasn't a detail.
She had celebrated with her sister. Her mother had bought champagne that was far too expensive. Cloe had drunk more than half of it and insisted on making a toast in which she called Mara “the sexiest corporate tyrant in England.”
Mara could almost hear her voice.
In the world where she had woken up, however, the promotion had never happened.
She opened the office's internal system.
The case existed too.
Ashcroft Holdings v. Mercer Atlantic.
Mara clicked it.
The attorney in charge wasn't Mara Vale.
It was Rebecca Shaw.
Mara stared at the name.
Rebecca was good. Not as good as her.
The thought came automatically—and irritatingly—before the fear.
—Of course it had to be Rebecca.
It took Mara several seconds to realize how absurd it was to be offended that someone had won a case in a reality that might not even be hers.
Even so, she was.
Because that case had been hers.
She remembered the sleepless nights, the endless meetings, and the opposing attorney's expression when Mara found an inconsistency in a financial report that demolished half the defense's argument.
Now it belonged to someone else.
Her memory said one thing. Every piece of available evidence said another.
Mara opened Rebecca's profile.
The professional description included the case exactly.
She closed the laptop.
This time, the world hadn't taken only Cloe.
It had taken part of Mara's history too.
And for some reason she wasn't ready to admit, losing a professional achievement felt more real than dying.
When she entered the office at eight forty-five, Daniel looked up from reception.
—Good morning, Miss Vale.
Mara stopped.
—You know me.
Daniel looked offended.
—We've worked together for almost two years.
—One year and four months.
He smiled.
—You finally learned.
Mara felt something tighten in her chest.
The conversation was similar. Not the same.
In the other world, that exchange had happened before the first death. Here, Daniel seemed to remember a different story wrapped around the same joke.
—You all right? —he asked.
—I'm starting to hate that question.
—Does that mean no?
—It means good morning, Daniel.
She continued to the elevators.
On the thirty-fourth floor, nothing suggested that the corridor had caught fire less than twenty hours earlier in her memory.
The walls were whole. The glass doors were spotless. The digital panel read 8:49.
Mara stopped in front of it.
For several seconds, she saw it again, reading 11:43 through the smoke.
—Mara?
She turned.
Lucy was coming down the corridor carrying coffee and a folder.
Alive. Without burns. Without even looking particularly traumatized.
Mara walked toward her.
—Did you take the stairs?
Lucy raised an eyebrow.
—From where?
—Yesterday.
—Yesterday was Monday.
—I know what day yesterday was.
—Then you also know I worked from home.
Mara stood still.
—You didn't come to the office?
—No.
—Not at all?
—No.
Lucy began to look worried.
—You asked me to work remotely because of the hearing.
Mara hadn't done that. At least she didn't remember doing it.
—Right.
Lucy studied her.
—Are you okay?
—Great.
—Okay.
—Don't say it like that.
—Like what?
—Like you're mentally cataloging my symptoms.
Lucy smiled.
—I would never do that in front of you.
Mara almost replied, but then she saw Rebecca Shaw crossing the corridor.
Rebecca greeted her with a nod.
—Vale.
—Shaw.
—Congratulations on the Morrison settlement.
Mara took a fraction of a second too long.
She had no idea what settlement Rebecca was talking about.
—Thanks.
Rebecca kept walking.
Lucy noticed.
—You forgot about Morrison?
—No.
—It closed Friday.
—I know.
Lucy took a sip of coffee.
—You really need to sleep.
Mara waited for her to move away.
Then she entered her office and closed the door.
The Morrison settlement didn't exist in her memory.
There were things in that life that belonged to her and that she had never lived through.
And things she had lived through that now belonged to other people.
That realization was worse than simply discovering a mistake.
Because Mara was beginning to understand that maybe she hadn't woken up in a flawed version of her own life.
Maybe that life was perfectly correct.
She was the mistake.
By ten thirty, Mara had two lists on her desk.
The first contained everything that remained the same.
Name. Age. Family. Address. Education. Job.
The second contained the differences.
Cloe never knew me. I wasn't promoted. Ashcroft belongs to Rebecca. Morrison belongs to me. I don't remember it. Lucy worked from home yesterday.
Mara added:
No explosion.
She stared at the sentence.
Then wrote beneath it:
Man appeared in both deaths.
That was the only information she couldn't verify.
Yet.
Mara pulled out her laptop and accessed the office security system.
She didn't have direct access to the footage, but she knew who did.
She called.
—Security.
—Patrick, it's Mara Vale.
—Miss Vale.
She waited for some strange reaction.
Nothing.
—I need to check the building footage.
—From when?
—Yesterday.
—Did something happen?
—I'm trying to find out.
Patrick fell silent.
—I need authorization.
—I can get authorization.
—Then get it.
Mara smiled involuntarily.
She liked him a little more for that.
—I also want footage of the building entrances from last Friday.
—Why?
—Patrick.
—Authorization, Miss Vale.
—You're getting repetitive.
—It works.
She hung up.
Finding the man would be harder than she'd imagined.
She didn't know his name. She didn't know whether he worked nearby. She didn't know if he really existed in this world.
She had only a face.
Mara tried to draw him.
She immediately discovered that she was a terrible artist and tore off the page before anyone could find it.
Then she began writing down what she remembered.
Approximately thirty-five to forty years old. Dark hair. Tall. Black overcoat. Calm posture. No sign of panic. Direct gaze.
She hesitated.
Added:
Seemed sad.
She read the sentence and crossed it out.
That wasn't evidence.
It was interpretation.
Mara knew better than to mix the two.
Her phone rang.
Grayson.
—My office.
—Now?
—That's usually the implication.
When she entered, he pointed to the chair.
—Close the door.
Mara obeyed.
Grayson placed a document in front of her.
—Ashcroft.
Mara felt her stomach tighten.
—What about it?
—Rebecca wants you on the next phase.
—Why?
—Because you're better at hearings than she is.
It was exactly the answer Mara would have expected.
Even so, it hurt.
—I should already be on the case.
Grayson frowned.
—Why?
—Forget it.
—You've been doing that a lot.
—Doing what?
—Saying strange things and then telling me to forget them.
Mara leaned back.
—Maybe I'm cultivating a mysterious personality.
—It doesn't suit you.
—Why not?
—Mysterious people know how to keep quiet.
She almost smiled.
—Anything else?
—Yes. Your father called.
Mara stopped.
—You?
—Reception. They told him you were in a meeting.
—My father never calls the office.
Grayson raised his hands.
—That sounds like a family matter I have an intense desire not to participate in.
Mara was already on her feet.
In the corridor, she checked her phone.
Two missed calls.
Dad.
She called back.
—Did something happen?
—Good morning to you too.
His voice sounded normal.
Familiar.
—You called my office.
—Your phone was turned off.
Mara looked at the screen.
It wasn't.
—What happened?
—I just wanted to confirm dinner.
Mara fell silent.
—What dinner?
Now it was his turn to hesitate.
—Tonight.
—We have dinner tonight?
—At seven thirty.
Mara pressed her fingers to her forehead.
—Right.
—You forgot.
—I didn't forget.
—Mara.
—It's on my calendar.
She opened the calendar.
It was there.
Dinner — Dad. 7:30 p.m.
She had never created it.
—I'll see you at seven thirty.
She hung up.
Another small piece of life someone else had lived in her place.
It was her.
But it wasn't.
Mara didn't go to dinner.
At 5:16 that afternoon, she had her third vision.
This time, she was awake.
Completely.
Sitting in her own office, reading a report.
The first thing that changed was the sound.
The office conversation vanished, replaced by music.
Bass-heavy. Loud.
Mara looked up.
She could no longer see the wall in front of her.
She saw bottles lined up on illuminated shelves.
A black bar.
Violet light cutting through smoke.
She recognized the place immediately.
Cloe's bar.
The vision moved forward like a memory that didn't belong to her.
A bottle fell and shattered on the floor.
Someone laughed.
Cloe was behind the bar, her hair short, the nose ring gleaming beneath the lights.
The same Cloe from this world.
Mara tried to call out to her.
She had no voice.
The lights flickered.
Once.
Then again.
On the third flicker, half the room plunged into darkness.
Mara heard something crack above the music.
An electrical sound.
Sparks fell near the ceiling.
Someone screamed.
The image changed.
Smoke flooded the room.
People shoved one another toward the exit.
An illuminated sign fell.
Cloe was trapped behind the bar.
There was blood on her face.
Mara saw her own hand trying to reach her.
Then she saw fire tear through the ceiling.
And for an instant, in the broken reflection of a bottle lying on the floor, there was a clock.
10:18 p.m.
The vision ended.
Mara returned to the office with such violence that she knocked over the chair as she stood.
Lucy appeared in the doorway.
—Mara?
She looked at the clock.
5:17 p.m.
Five hours.
—I have to go.
—You have the New York call at six.
Mara grabbed her bag.
—Cancel it.
—You requested that meeting three weeks ago.
—Then they'll survive waiting another day.
—What do I tell them?
Mara was already in the corridor.
—Make something up.
—That coming from a lawyer sounds dangerous!
Mara didn't answer.
At five past six, she was standing in front of the bar.
Closed.
It opened at eight.
Mara watched the facade.
In the previous world, she had gone in looking for comfort.
Cloe had shoved her and asked who she was.
This Cloe didn't know that had happened.
It had never happened to her.
Mara thought about calling the police.
Good evening. I'd like to report a fire that will happen four hours from now because I saw everything during a hallucination after dying for the second time.
Unlikely.
She could call the fire department and claim she smelled gas.
More effective.
Also illegal.
Mara considered it for approximately three seconds.
She picked up the phone.
Before she could make the call, the door opened.
Cloe came out carrying two empty boxes.
She stopped when she saw Mara.
—Can I help you?
The question hit Mara hard.
There was no recognition.
No fear.
This Cloe had never seen her before.
Mara had to remember that, to this woman, she really was a stranger standing in front of her workplace in the late afternoon.
—Cloe?
She glanced at the name tag she wasn't even wearing yet.
—How do you know my name?
Mara almost laughed.
Of course.
—We need to talk.
—That line generally works better when I know the person.
—My name is Mara.
Cloe studied her face.
—Okay, Mara. Are you selling something?
—No.
—Religion?
—Definitely not.
—Somebody's ex?
—Not that I know of.
—That was weirdly specific.
Mara glanced at the boxes.
—What time do you work until tonight?
Cloe narrowed her eyes.
—Why?
—I need you not to work.
—Great start. Are you paying my rent too?
—If necessary.
Cloe laughed.
—Are you always like this?
Mara felt something unexpected.
The question was exactly the kind of thing Cloe would say.
For an instant, this woman seemed like her friend again.
—Unfortunately.
—So what's the scam?
—There is no scam.
—A stranger shows up at my job, knows my name, and offers me money to leave. Either it's a scam or the beginning of a true-crime documentary.
—Cloe...
—How do you know my name?
Mara took a deep breath.
She could repeat Brighton. Liam. The olives.
She could scare her exactly as she had in the other world.
This time, however, something stopped her.
Maybe the memory of the fear on Cloe's face.
Maybe her sister's words on the phone before the last death.
You decide what everyone needs to know.
Mara tried a different approach.
—I can't explain without sounding completely insane.
Cloe set the boxes on the ground.
—That never stopped anyone in this neighborhood.
—Something bad is going to happen here tonight.
The amusement vanished from her face.
—Are you threatening me?
—No.
—Because it sounds a lot like a threat.
—I'm trying to warn you.
—About what?
Mara looked at the building.
—Fire. Maybe an electrical problem. I don't know exactly.
—And how do you know?
It was the inevitable question.
Mara took her time.
—I saw it.
—Saw it where?
—It hasn't happened yet.
Cloe stared at her.
—Okay.
—I know how it sounds.
—I doubt it.
—Cloe, at 10:18, something happens here. The lights go out, a fire starts, and people try to leave all at once. You get trapped behind the bar.
Cloe stepped back.
Mara saw the immediate change.
The conversation was over.
—I'm calling my manager.
—Call him.
—And maybe the police.
—Call them too.
That seemed to confuse her.
—You're not leaving?
—No.
—Why not?
Mara answered before she could filter the truth.
—Because I'm not going to watch you die.
Cloe went still.
The silence between them lasted too long.
—Do we know each other? —she finally asked.
The question came differently from the one in the other world.
Not as an accusation.
As a doubt.
Mara wanted to say yes.
It would have been so easy.
—Not here.
Cloe frowned.
—What does that mean?
Mara looked away.
—It means you should call your manager.
The manager's name was Elliot, and it took him approximately four minutes to decide that Mara was a problem.
It took another seven for him to change his mind after she mentioned civil liability, maintenance failures, and the fact that the establishment's insurance company would probably love to learn that a specific electrical hazard warning had been ignored hours before a possible incident.
—You're a lawyer? —he asked.
—Yes.
—That explains a lot.
—Thanks.
—It wasn't a compliment.
—I'm used to it.
Elliot agreed to call an electrician.
Mara wanted to evacuate the entire building.
He wanted to open as usual.
They reached an agreement neither of them found satisfactory: the technical crew would conduct an inspection before opening.
At 7:40, they found nothing.
Mara had expected that.
They hadn't found anything at the office either.
—Normal installation —the electrician said. —A few old components, but nothing dangerous.
Elliot crossed his arms.
—There. Done.
Mara looked at the clock.
7:46 p.m.
—Close anyway.
He laughed.
—No.
—I will pay the night's average revenue.
Cloe, who had heard the conversation from behind the bar, raised her head.
—You were serious about paying my rent.
—Don't exaggerate.
Elliot looked at Mara as if trying to decide whether she was rich or simply insane.
—Do you know how much we make on a Tuesday?
—Approximately.
—You don't.
Mara named a number.
The silence was satisfying.
—How the hell do you know that? —Cloe asked.
—Estimated occupancy, average menu price, room capacity, and approximate turnover.
Cloe looked at Elliot.
—I like her.
Mara almost smiled.
Elliot didn't.
—I'm not closing my business because a lawyer had a feeling.
—Then conduct a preventive evacuation at ten.
—No.
Mara felt her impatience rising.
This was the point where she normally started applying pressure until she won.
—If anyone gets hurt here tonight—
—Enough.
Elliot pointed toward the door.
—You checked the wiring. We did too. It's over.
Mara opened her mouth.
Cloe interrupted.
—Maybe she should stay.
They both looked at her.
—What? —Elliot asked.
Cloe shrugged.
—If she's wrong, we gain a rich, weird customer. If she's right, it might be good to have Corporate Cassandra nearby.
Mara frowned.
—Cassandra?
—Greek mythology.
—I know who Cassandra is.
—Of course you do.
Cloe went back to arranging glasses.
—You look like someone who corrects Wikipedia as a hobby.
That was exactly the kind of comment Mara had missed her for.
Even when Cloe had no idea who she was.
By nine thirty, the bar was packed.
Mara remained at a table near the exit, not touching the drink Cloe had left in front of her.
She watched everything.
Bottles. Lights. Staff. Exits. Fire extinguishers. People.
The woman in the silver dress who had appeared briefly in the vision wasn't there yet.
Neither was the man in the red jacket.
Mara noted the times on her phone.
At 9:43 p.m., Cloe sat across from her for less than a minute.
—So?
—So what?
—The apocalypse prediction.
—There's still time.
—Do you talk like that on dates too?
—I don't know. My dates usually involve less risk of fire.
—Your exes must be very disappointing.
Mara thought about her last boyfriend and the tax-evasion lawsuit.
—You'd be surprised.
Cloe picked up Mara's untouched drink and took a sip.
—Hey.
—You weren't using it.
—That doesn't make it yours.
—Interesting philosophy for a lawyer.
Mara watched her.
The gesture. The smile. The way she rested her elbow on the table.
Everything was Cloe.
And at the same time, this woman had nine years of a life in which Mara didn't exist.
—What? —Cloe asked.
—Nothing.
—You look at me strangely.
Mara turned her face away.
—Sorry.
—Have we really never met?
Mara felt her heart tighten.
—You don't know me.
—That's not what I asked.
Mara looked at her again.
Cloe was smiling, but less so now.
—Before, you said “not here.”
—It was a poor choice of words.
—You seem to choose words for a living.
—And usually much better.
Cloe stood.
—If we survive the imaginary fire, you owe me another drink.
—If we survive, I'll buy the bar.
Cloe laughed and returned to the bar.
Mara looked at the clock.
9:51 p.m.
Twenty-seven minutes.
That was when she saw the woman in the silver dress enter.
Mara stood.
The woman checked her coat at the entrance and walked straight to the spot where Mara had seen her in the vision.
The blood seemed to drain from Mara's face.
A few seconds later, a man in a red jacket appeared behind her.
Mara looked at Cloe.
—Elliot!
No one heard her.
The music was too loud.
Mara crossed the room.
9:55 p.m.
—Cloe.
—What?
—It's started.
The smile vanished.
—Are you sure?
—Yes.
Cloe looked at the woman in silver.
Then at the man in red.
—What do they have to do with it?
—I don't know.
—That's reassuring.
Mara found Elliot.
—Now.
—No.
—The people from the vision are here.
He ran a hand over his face.
—Mara—
—If I'm wrong, sue me tomorrow.
—You're a lawyer.
—Then you know where to find me.
The first flicker came at 10:02.
So quick that almost no one noticed.
Mara noticed.
The lights dimmed and came back.
She looked at the ceiling.
So did Cloe.
—Does that happen? —Mara asked.
Cloe didn't answer immediately.
—Sometimes.
—How many times?
—I don't know.
Mara felt her heart begin to race.
—Turn on the emergency lights.
—Mara—
The second flicker happened at 10:07.
This time, the music cut out with it.
Several people protested.
Elliot appeared behind the bar.
—What was that?
—The system must have gone down —one employee said.
Mara looked at the clock.
Eleven minutes.
—Get everyone out.
Elliot hesitated.
—Now! —Mara shouted.
The authority in her voice worked.
Maybe because, this time, there was something concrete.
Elliot shut off the music.
Complaints began immediately.
—Attention! —he announced. —We've had a small electrical failure. We're going to evacuate the room for a few minutes.
Mara let out a breath.
People began walking toward the exit.
It worked.
Cloe appeared beside her.
—You're shaking.
Mara looked at her own hands.
She was.
—I know.
—So you really believe this.
Mara met her eyes.
—With everything I've got.
Cloe stayed quiet for several seconds.
—I hope you're wrong.
—So do I.
At 10:12, half the bar was empty.
Mara helped guide people outside.
10:13. 10:14.
Maybe she could do it.
10:15.
Cloe was taking two staff members out through the back exit.
Mara looked around.
Almost no one was left.
The woman in the silver dress had already gone.
The man in red had too.
Mara felt the first trace of relief.
Then the lights flickered for the third time.
They went out.
This time, they didn't come back.
In the darkness came the sharp sound of breaking glass.
Then an electrical snap above the ceiling.
Mara looked up.
A single spark fell near the bar.
Her clock read 10:16 p.m.
And from the back of the bar, someone screamed.