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"You've got four hours."
I say it to the woman behind the glass desk like I'm discussing the weather. Like I didn't just pick her penthouse lock and walk past a half-million-dollar sculpture to get here.
Sienna Graves doesn't flinch. She sets down her wine, slow and deliberate, gold rings catching the city lights behind her. "Four hours until what?"
"Until you die."
The countdown floats above her head. Clean red digits, sharp as a heart monitor. 03:47:22. Ticking down. I've been seeing these timers since I was sixteen—over every person, every stranger on the street. Most people get years. Some get decades. Sienna Graves gets less than four hours, and she's the only lead I have left.
She leans back in her chair, and I catch the edge of a shoulder holster under her blazer. "You broke into my home to tell me I'm going to die tonight?"
"I broke in to stop it."
"How generous." Her voice is winter-cold, boardroom-smooth. She doesn't believe me. Why would she? I'm thirty, dressed in black cargo pants and a jacket with too many pockets, and I just confessed to breaking and entering. "What do you want?"
"Information. About a woman who disappeared six years ago. Mia Reese."
Something flickers across her face. Not recognition. Calculation. "Never heard of her."
"You're lying."
"Prove it."
I could. I've got the bank transfers Juno dug up, the shell company that traced back to Sienna's gallery, the appointment logged under a fake name three days before Mia vanished. But the timer above Sienna's head drops to 03:46:10, and I don't have time for a deposition.
"Someone's coming to kill you tonight," I say. "Tell me what you know about my sister, and I'll make sure you live to see morning."
"Your sister." She stands, and I track the movement of her hand. Not toward the holster. Toward the phone on the desk. "You're Val Reese."
I go still. "How do you know my name?"
"Because Mia told me someone might come looking. She said if her baby sister ever showed up, I should call security and have you removed."
The words hit like a fist to the chest. Mia knew. Mia knew I'd come, and she told this woman to throw me out.
"Call them," I say. My voice comes out rough. "But when you're bleeding out in three hours, don't expect me to stop it."
Her fingers pause over the phone. The countdown ticks to 03:44:33.
"You're insane," she says.
"I'm a debt collector. I find people who don't want to be found. And I can see when they're going to die." I point at the empty air above her head. "Right now, you've got three hours and forty-four minutes. So either you start talking, or I walk out and let whatever's coming for you finish the job."
She stares at me. The kind of stare that's used to making men in suits squirm. I've repossessed cars from loan sharks and dragged grown men out of casinos by their collars. I don't squirm.
"Sit," she says finally.
I don't. "Where's Mia?"
"I said sit."
"And I said where's—"
The window explodes.
Glass sprays inward, glittering like snow under the overhead lights. I hit the floor on instinct, ears ringing, and Sienna's already moving—diving behind the desk, hand going for the holster. No gunshot. No sound at all except the wind screaming through the shattered window and the faint wail of a car alarm fifteen stories below.
Someone just blew her window with a shaped charge.
"Stay down," Sienna hisses. She's got the gun out now, a sleek black pistol that probably costs more than my rent. "Who the hell are you working for?"
"No one. I told you—"
"You told me you broke into my home, and now someone's trying to kill me. Forgive me if I'm not seeing the distinction."
The timer above her head reads 03:42:11. I can see it even through the desk, glowing red in the dark. Mia's name is somewhere in this woman's head, locked behind six years of silence and whatever deal they made. If Sienna dies tonight, that's it. The trail ends.
"I'm not with them," I say. "I'm trying to save you."
"Why?"
"Because you know where my sister is."
She laughs. It's a bitter, airless sound. "You think I'm going to tell you that now?"
"You don't have a choice."
Footsteps echo in the hallway outside. Heavy. Multiple sets. Sienna's head snaps toward the door, and I see the calculation in her eyes—how many bullets in the magazine, how many men, how fast she can move.
"Back exit," she says. "Through the bedroom. Go."
"Not without you."
"I don't need your help."
"You've got three and a half hours. Yeah, you do."
The door crashes open. Two men in tactical gear, no insignia, rifles up. I grab Sienna's wrist and yank her toward the bedroom before she can do something stupid like shoot first. She resists for half a second, then moves—fast and low, the gun still in her hand.
The bedroom's all white silk and floor-to-ceiling windows. No exit. No fire escape. I scan the walls, the closet, the—there. A panel in the wall, barely visible. Service corridor, maybe, or a panic room.
"Open it," I say.
Sienna's already moving. She slaps her palm against a hidden reader, and the panel slides back with a hiss. A narrow hallway, concrete and fluorescent lights. She slips inside, and I follow, slamming the panel shut behind us.
Silence. Just our breathing, harsh and uneven, and the faint hum of ventilation overhead. The timer above Sienna's head reads 03:39:47.
"Keep moving," she says. Her voice is steady, but her hand's shaking. Just a little. Just enough.
We run.
The corridor twists, slopes downward, branches into smaller passages. Sienna moves like she knows the layout by heart, and I stay on her heels, counting seconds. One minute. Two. The footsteps behind us fade, then vanish.
We stop in a junction, three hallways splitting off into darkness. Sienna leans against the wall, chest heaving, and fixes me with a look that could cut steel.
"Start talking," she says. "Who sent you?"
"I told you. No one."
"Then how did you know someone was coming for me tonight?"
I point at the space above her head. "Because I can see your timer. And it's running out."
She stares at me. Then she laughs again, sharp and jagged. "You're telling me you're psychic."
"I'm telling you I see death countdowns, and yours hits zero in three and a half hours. So unless you want to die in this hallway, you're going to tell me what happened to Mia."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because I'm the only one who can keep you alive."
Her jaw tightens. The gun's still in her hand, barrel pointed at the floor, but I can see her finger resting on the trigger guard. She's weighing it. Trust versus survival. Information versus death.
The timer ticks to 03:37:20.
"Mia came to me six years ago," she says finally. The words come out slow, dragged from somewhere deep. "She had information. About a deal I was brokering. She said if I didn't help her disappear, she'd go to the police."
"What kind of deal?"
"The kind that gets people killed."
"Where is she now?"
Sienna's eyes narrow. "If I tell you, you'll leave. And I'll be alone when they find me."
"If you don't tell me, I'll leave anyway."
"Then we're at an impasse."
Footsteps again. Closer this time. Sienna's head snaps toward the left corridor, and I see her knuckles go white on the grip of the gun.
"We need to move," I say.
"We need to split up."
"Bad idea."
"I don't take orders from you."
She turns and runs down the left hallway. I swear under my breath and follow, because the timer above her head is still ticking down, and if she dies before she gives me Mia's location, six years of searching ends tonight.
The hallway opens into a storage room. Shelves stacked with cleaning supplies, a mop bucket, a metal door marked Emergency Exit. Sienna hits the door at a run, and an alarm screams to life—shrill and deafening.
We spill into a stairwell. Concrete steps spiraling down into shadow. Sienna takes them two at a time, and I'm right behind her, the alarm still wailing behind us. My legs burn. My lungs burn. The timer reads 03:34:12.
"Stop," I gasp. "We need to—"
"Shut up and run."
We hit the ground floor. Another service corridor, this one leading toward the parking garage. Sienna slows, breathing hard, and I grab her shoulder.
"Listen to me," I say. "They're not going to stop. Whoever hired them wants you dead, and they've got three and a half hours to make it happen. You can't outrun this."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Tell me where Mia is. Right now. Before we run out of time."
She stares at me. The gun's still in her hand. The timer above her head reads 03:33:01.
"She's in Prague," Sienna whispers. "Under the name Sofia Kade. That's all I know."
Relief crashes through me, so sharp it's almost painful. Prague. A name. After six years, I finally have something solid.
"Thank you," I breathe.
Then the wall behind Sienna explodes.
The bullet punches through concrete and plaster, and I see the spray of blood before I hear the gunshot. Sienna's eyes go wide. She staggers forward, and I catch her, my hands slipping on something wet and warm.
The timer above her head reads 00:00:03.
"No," I say. "No, no, no—"
Her weight sags against me. The gun clatters to the floor. Her lips move, shaping words I can't hear over the ringing in my ears.
The timer hits zero.
Sienna Graves dies in my arms.
And the world goes dark.
I wake up twelve hours earlier.
Same penthouse. Same glass desk. Same city lights behind the windows. But this time, Sienna's standing by the bar, pouring wine, and the countdown above her head reads 11:47:22.
I try to say her name.
Nothing comes out.
I try again. My lips move. My throat works. But there's no sound. No voice. Just silence, thick and absolute.
Sienna turns, glass in hand, and her eyes narrow.
"Who the hell are you?" she says.
I can't hear her.