Mara opened her eyes in a room that wasn't hers and, for the first time since she had started dying, wasn't sure where she had returned to.
She didn't get up immediately.
After three deaths, she had at least learned that much.
First, observe.
The ceiling was higher. The curtains were light instead of the heavy gray curtains in her apartment. Morning light streamed through a huge window that definitely didn't exist in her bedroom.
Mara took a deep breath.
No pain.
No smell of smoke.
No taste of blood.
Her last moment was still intact in her memory: the floor giving way beneath her feet, Cloe screaming from upstairs, and the unknown man staring at her through the opening as everything ended in flames.
The question she had asked him was still there, too.
Had you known me before?
And, for the first time, he hadn't managed to completely hide the answer.
Mara closed her eyes for a moment.
She hadn't heard a word.
She didn't need to.
The pain on that man's face had been more honest than any confession.
When she opened her eyes again, the unfamiliar reality was still all around her.
—Okay.
She sat up.
The bed was far too large.
So was the room.
There was an armchair near the window, a bookcase filled with books Mara didn't recognize, and, on a dresser, a framed photograph of herself receiving some kind of award.
Mara stood up.
She was wearing a white T-shirt that belonged to her—or at least seemed to—and pajama pants she would never have bought because, at first glance, they cost more than a reasonable person should pay to sleep in.
The view from the window confirmed that she was still in London.
She just wasn't in her London.
The Thames appeared in the distance between the buildings, gleaming beneath the gray morning sky. Judging by the location, Mara guessed she was somewhere in South Bank, probably in an apartment priced far above the one she remembered living in.
She picked up the phone from the nightstand.
Face recognition.
It worked.
Wednesday.
7:03 a.m.
Mara opened her contacts.
Mom.
Dad.
Sister.
They were all there.
Relief came before she could stop it.
She called her sister.
The call dropped immediately.
Mara frowned and tried again.
The same thing.
She opened her messages.
The conversation existed.
It stopped eight months earlier.
The last messages were from her.
We need to talk.
Then:
You're being childish.
Another:
I'm just trying to stop you from making a mistake.
No response.
Mara scrolled upward.
There had been a long argument.
Her sister accused Mara of calling her employer without permission.
In this reality, Mara had apparently discovered that her sister was about to quit her job to accept a position at a small company she considered unstable.
Instead of talking to her, she had researched the company, found financial problems, and called someone she knew in the industry.
Then she had sent everything to her sister as if she were presenting evidence in court.
The argument ended with a message:
You're not my lawyer, Mara. And you're not my mother. Stop deciding my life for me.
Mara read it twice.
Further down was her own response:
When this goes wrong, you'll understand.
Nothing after that.
Mara set the phone on the bed.
—Excellent.
She hadn't needed to live through that conversation to know exactly how it could have happened.
Worse: she could imagine every justification.
The company was unstable.
Her sister could lose money.
Maybe she had a secure career and was about to destroy it on impulse.
Mara had probably been right about the risks.
And apparently, she had turned that into permission to interfere.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
That Mara was her.
Not metaphorically.
Not an evil version created to teach her a convenient lesson.
She recognized the logic.
She even recognized the tone of the messages.
You'll understand when I'm right.
It was something she could have said.
Maybe she had said it under different circumstances.
Mara picked up the phone again and called her mother.
This time, she answered.
—Mara?
The voice was cautious.
Not surprised.
Cautious.
—Good morning.
—It's seven in the morning.
—I know.
—Did something happen?
Mara hesitated.
—Is my sister still not speaking to me?
There was silence.
—Are you actually asking?
—Yes.
Her mother sighed.
—Then yes.
—How long has it been?
—Mara...
—Just answer me.
—Eight months.
She closed her eyes.
—Okay.
—Have you been drinking?
—Why does everyone assume my first reaction to a crisis would be to drink at seven in the morning?
—Because the alternative is that you've finally realized you overreacted.
Mara got up and began pacing around the room.
—Is she okay?
—She is.
—Working?
—She is.
—At the company I didn't want her to join?
—At the company you tried to destroy before she even started.
—I didn't try to destroy—
She stopped.
She didn't know.
That version of her might have tried exactly that.
—Forget it.
Her mother was silent for a few seconds.
—Do you want me to tell her you called?
Mara looked at the last messages.
—No.
—Are you sure?
—I am.
It was a lie.
She wanted to find her sister immediately.
She wanted to see her, hear her, and confirm that she still existed.
But that woman had eight months' worth of reasons not to want to speak to her.
Mara still didn't know enough to decide whether she had the right to cross that distance as if nothing had happened.
The thought was new.
And uncomfortable.
—If she asks, tell her only that I wanted to know if she was okay—Mara said.
Her mother sounded surprised.
—That's all?
—That's all.
—Are you really okay?
Mara looked around the unfamiliar room.
—I'm still deciding.
She hung up.
The apartment had two floors.
Mara discovered this when she opened a door looking for the bathroom and found a staircase.
—Of course.
She went downstairs.
The kitchen looked like it had come out of an architecture magazine that used words like minimalist to justify the absence of any object that looked as though it had actually been used.
An expensive coffee machine occupied one counter.
At least Mara recognized how to use it.
While she waited, she continued investigating her own life.
The address confirmed what she had suspected.
Apartment overlooking the Thames.
Obscene price.
Obscene mortgage.
A bank account healthy enough to make the mortgage only mildly offensive.
Then she opened her work email.
The signature at the bottom of the first message made Mara stop.
Mara Vale Partner — Commercial Litigation
She enlarged the screen as if the words might change.
Partner.
Mara Vale, thirty-one years old, was a partner.
She opened the firm's website.
Her profile was among the leading names on the commercial litigation team.
The photograph was recent.
The biography said she had led cases Mara remembered only following from a distance.
There were awards.
Interviews.
An article published months earlier with the title:
THE NEW FACE OF LONDON LITIGATION
Mara felt something dangerously close to satisfaction.
This version had made it.
Not all the way.
She still wasn't London's best lawyer—any publication claiming that would be suspect, she thought—but she was closer than Mara had ever been in the other lives she remembered.
She opened the article.
The interviewer asked about sacrifice.
That Mara's answer was highlighted.
“If someone says they want to be exceptional while demanding balance in every area of their life, they probably still haven't decided what they want.”
Mara stared at the sentence.
She could imagine herself saying it.
In fact, she hated admitting how good it sounded.
She read the rest.
There was no mention of family.
No mention of a relationship.
No Cloe.
The article described Mara as disciplined, aggressive in court, “notoriously demanding” of her own team, and practically impossible to find outside the office.
Mara took her first sip of coffee.
It was terrible.
At least something in this life had lower standards.
Her phone vibrated.
A work message.
Rebecca: Don't forget lunch with Halbridge. They moved it to 12:30.
Mara opened her calendar.
The day was packed.
Meeting at nine.
Call at ten.
Lunch at twelve-thirty.
Review at three.
Awards dinner at eight.
Mara scrolled through the list.
That version of herself seemed to have built exactly the life she claimed to want.
And for the first time, the idea didn't seem entirely appealing.
At nine-oh-five, she walked into the office and noticed another difference.
Daniel stood when he saw her.
—Good morning, Ms. Vale.
The tone was different.
Not hostile.
Formal.
Cautious.
—Good morning, Daniel.
He blinked.
—Good morning.
Mara stopped.
—What?
—Nothing.
—You made a face.
Daniel seemed to consider whether it was worth answering.
—You usually walk right past me.
Ms. Vale.
Mara hated that.
—And how long have you worked here?
—Two years and three months.
She nodded.
Another difference.
—Okay.
She started walking.
—Ms. Vale?
Mara looked back.
Daniel seemed nervous.
—Congratulations on yesterday's award.
—Thank you.
She had no idea which award he meant.
She kept going.
In the elevator, she ran into Lucy.
The young woman stepped inside, saw Mara, and immediately straightened her posture.
—Good morning.
—Lucy.
Silence.
The doors closed.
Mara watched her in the metallic reflection.
Lucy was clutching a file folder to her chest.
She looked as though she were trying to take up less space.
—How did the hearing go?
Lucy turned her head.
—Which one?
—Tuesday's.
—It ended yesterday.
Of course.
—How did it go?
—Fine.
“Fine” was a worryingly useless word for describing a hearing.
Lucy looked at her in surprise.
—We won.
—Then say that.
—We won.
—Better.
The elevator continued upward.
Lucy didn't smile.
Mara missed the version of her who argued with Mara.
—Are you okay?
Lucy looked almost frightened by the question.
—Yes.
—Are you sure?
—I am.
The doors opened.
Lucy left too quickly.
Mara remained where she was.
Something was wrong.
Not with Lucy.
With her.
Or, more precisely, with the woman that reality knew as Mara Vale.
Her office confirmed it.
Bigger.
Better view.
A discreet plaque beside the door indicated her position as partner.
On the desk was a stack of documents organized with almost aggressive precision.
Mara opened her computer.
Messages.
Many of them.
Some began to form a pattern.
Sorry to bother you.
If you have time.
If it's not a problem.
Can I send this for your review?
She knew respect.
That wasn't respect.
It was fear.
Mara leaned back in her chair.
She had wanted to spend years walking into rooms and making people understand that they shouldn't underestimate her.
That version of her had apparently solved the problem.
Maybe too well.
At nine twenty, Rebecca came in.
—Did you call me?
Mara hadn't.
—Come in.
Rebecca sat down.
She also seemed more careful than the Rebecca Mara remembered.
—How did the hearing go?
—You were there.
Mara held her gaze.
—I want your assessment.
Rebecca relaxed just enough to answer.
—Better than we expected. They offered a settlement afterward.
—How much?
Rebecca named the amount.
Mara nodded.
—Reject it.
—We already did.
—Good.
Rebecca hesitated.
—It was your decision.
Mara almost laughed.
—Even better.
Silence returned.
—Rebecca.
—Yes?
—Are people afraid of me?
The question caught the other woman completely off guard.
—I'm sorry?
—It's not complicated.
Rebecca began choosing her words.
Mara raised a hand.
—Don't turn this into a diplomatic statement.
Rebecca let out a breath.
—You want the professional answer?
—No.
—Then yes.
Mara fell silent.
—Everyone?
—No.
—Lucy?
Rebecca hesitated.
That was answer enough.
—Why?
—Mara...
—I asked for honesty.
Rebecca leaned back.
—Because you're excellent at what you do and you expect everyone to keep up. And because when someone doesn't, you don't usually forget it.
—That sounds reasonable.
Rebecca gave a short laugh.
—There it is.
—What?
—You asked why.
Mara felt irritation.
Automatic.
Defensive.
—I can't manage a team based on everyone's feelings.
—No. But sometimes it seems like you manage it as if feelings were operational defects.
The sentence hung between them.
Mara thought of her sister.
Thought of Cloe.
Thought of three deaths in which she had tried to decide what dozens of people should do because she knew more than they did.
Rebecca stood up.
—Can I go?
Mara looked at her.
—Of course.
At the door, Rebecca stopped.
—You're different today.
—That sentence is starting to haunt me.
—Different in a good way.
She left.
Mara was alone.
The version of her in this reality had achieved something she desperately wanted.
Prestige.
Money.
Power.
A position that made it impossible to ignore her.
And maybe she had built all of it in exactly the way Mara had always claimed was necessary.
The troubling question was how much she had lost along the way.
A little before noon, Mara tried calling her sister again.
This time, it didn't ring.
Blocked.
She could use another number.
She could call from the company.
She could ask her mother to intervene.
She could show up in person.
She had enough resources to cross practically any boundary.
She did none of those things.
Instead, she wrote a message she couldn't send.
I know you have reasons to be angry. I'm not going to try to say I was right. I just wanted to talk whenever you're ready.
She read it.
Deleted it.
Wrote another.
I'm sorry.
She stared at it.
The word seemed too small for eight months of silence.
And too big for an argument Mara didn't even remember living through.
She left the phone on the desk.
Maybe that wasn't her fight to resolve.
Not yet.
The vision came at 2:07 p.m.
Without pain.
Without warning.
Mara was in the middle of a meeting when the window glass seemed to turn into water.
She blinked.
The room disappeared.
The cold came first.
Not the cold of an air-conditioned room.
Water.
Dark water closing over her head.
Mara tried to breathe, and her body reacted as if she were actually drowning.
The world tilted.
Yellow lights pierced the surface above her.
There were muffled screams.
Groaning metal.
A boat.
The Thames.
The vision pulled her upward.
Mara was now on the deck of a large boat, surrounded by people dressed for some formal reception. Broken glasses were scattered across the floor. Tables had slid to one side.
The boat was tilting dangerously.
In the distance, the lights of Tower Bridge cut through the night.
Someone was shouting for everyone to put on life jackets.
Mara was looking for something.
No.
Someone.
Then she saw her.
Her sister was near the side of the deck.
Dark blue dress.
Wet hair.
Blood running down her forehead.
—Mara!
The voice seemed to cut through the vision.
Mara tried to reach her.
Another collision hurled people against the side.
The railing gave way.
Her sister fell.
Mara grabbed her hand.
For a few seconds, she managed to hold on.
The Thames rushed below them, black and violent.
—Don't let go!—her sister screamed.
Mara pulled.
Someone slammed into her back.
Her fingers began to slip.
—Mara!
The hand slipped free.
Her sister disappeared.
Mara jumped.
Cold.
Darkness.
Bodies.
Bubbles.
She found the blue dress.
She grabbed her sister.
Tried to swim upward.
Something had caught her leg.
A rope.
Or metal.
Mara pulled.
Nothing.
Her sister was unconscious in her arms.
Above them, lights warped by the water.
Mara tried to push her toward the surface.
She couldn't.
Her lungs burned.
Darkness was beginning to close in around the edges of her vision when an image appeared through the water.
The name of the boat.
White letters on the side of the hull.
MERIDIAN.
And then the vision ended.
—Mara!
She returned to the conference room, trying to breathe.
The chair had fallen behind her.
Six people were staring at her.
Rebecca was standing.
—Are you okay?
Mara gripped the edge of the table.
Air finally entered her lungs.
—Yes.
—You just—
Rebecca didn't finish.
Mara picked up her phone.
—The meeting's over.
—Mara—
—Now.
No one argued.
That would have pleased her that morning.
At that moment, it only frightened her.
She waited for the door to close.
Then she searched:
Meridian Thames London.
The result appeared immediately.
The Meridian — Private Events & Thames Cruises.
Mara felt her heart start racing.
She opened the website.
It was the same boat.
Same deck.
Same windows.
Same name.
An event was scheduled for Friday.
A charity reception organized by a foundation connected to young technology companies.
Mara opened the sponsor list.
She recognized the name of the company her sister had chosen against her wishes.
She stood motionless.
She picked up the phone and opened the blocked conversation again.
Then she went to her email.
She searched for her sister's name.
A message appeared.
Sent three weeks earlier.
Subject: Meridian — Friday
It was an exchange between Mara and her mother.
Her mother had asked whether she planned to attend the reception where her sister would be receiving professional recognition.
That reality's Mara had replied with a single line.
I see no reason for us to pretend everything is fine.
Mara felt ashamed of a decision she didn't remember making.
Her mother had replied:
One day you'll discover that being right isn't the same as being present.
Mara read it again.
Then she looked at the Meridian's website.
Friday.
Two days from now.
In the vision, her sister was on that boat.
And so was Mara.
That meant something would change between them before the tragedy.
Or that Mara would force the change.
She picked up the phone and found her sister's address.
She stared at it for a few seconds.
This time, she couldn't simply show up and tell her what she should do.
Not after reading why that woman had cut her out of her life.
But she also couldn't let her board the Meridian.
Mara stood up.
She picked up her coat.
Stopped beside the door.
Then returned to the desk.
She looked at her mother's message again.
Being right isn't the same as being present.
Mara put her phone away.
Maybe she needed to learn the difference.
She only hoped she would learn it before her sister died.