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The fixer's apartment smells like burnt coffee and old cigarettes. Charlotte kicks the door in at 11:47 p.m., three minutes before the hit squad arrives.
She's done this twice already. First loop, she got here at midnight, found him already bleeding out on the kitchen floor, three bullets in his chest. Second loop, she came earlier, tried to drag him out the back. They caught them both in the alley. She died first that time. Watched him get his throat cut while she choked on her own blood.
Third time's different. She's got a plan.
"Who the hell—" The fixer, a wiry guy in his fifties with graying hair and a Yankees cap, scrambles up from his couch. His hand goes for the gun on the coffee table.
"Don't." Charlotte moves fast, kicks the gun across the room. "You've got two minutes before four men come through that door to kill you."
He stares at her. "You're Grey."
"Yeah."
"You're supposed to be dead."
"I got better." She grabs his arm, pulls him toward the back window. "Move."
He jerks away. "I don't take orders from—"
"They're coming for the files you stole from Wade's operation. The ones about the Hong Kong supply line." Charlotte keeps her voice flat. "You tried to sell them to Ivy Chen. Wade found out. Now you're cleanup."
The fixer's face goes white. "How do you—"
"Doesn't matter." She moves to the window, checks the fire escape. Clear. For now. "You want to live, you follow me. You want to argue, you die here in ninety seconds."
Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Multiple.
The fixer looks at the door, then at Charlotte. Makes his choice. "Go."
She pops the window, climbs out onto the fire escape. Cold air hits her face. The metal grating is slick with old rain. Below, the alley stretches dark and narrow. Above, the ladder goes up four more floors.
"Up," she says. "They'll expect us to run down."
He follows her, breathing hard. He's not in shape for this. She can hear him wheezing as they climb. Behind them, glass shatters. Shouting. They're in the apartment.
"Faster," Charlotte snaps.
They hit the roof. She pulls him across the gravel, toward the gap between this building and the next. Three feet. Maybe four.
"You're insane," the fixer gasps. "I can't—"
"You can." She doesn't wait for him to argue. Just grabs his jacket, pulls him into a run, and jumps.
For a second there's nothing but air and the drop and the street six stories down. Then she hits the next roof, stumbles, catches herself. Turns back.
The fixer's still on the other side. Frozen.
"Jump," Charlotte says. "Now."
"I can't—"
A door slams open behind him. Two men spill out onto the roof, guns already up.
The fixer sees them. Jumps.
He barely makes it. His hands catch the edge, legs dangling. Charlotte grabs his wrist, hauls him up. Behind them, bullets crack into the rooftop. She drags him toward the stairwell door, kicks it open, shoves him inside.
They take the stairs fast. Her lungs burn. The fixer's gasping like a dying fish. Three floors down, she stops, listens. Voices below. They've got the building surrounded.
"Window," she says, pulling him into the third-floor hallway.
There's an apartment at the end with a broken lock. Inside, it's empty. Foreclosed, probably. She breaks the bedroom window, looks out. Another fire escape. This one leads down to a different alley.
"Out," she says.
He climbs through. She follows. They're halfway down when she hears boots on metal above them. They found the roof exit.
"Drop," Charlotte says.
They're still one floor up. The fixer looks at the drop, looks at her.
"Do it," she says, and pushes him.
He falls, hits a dumpster, rolls off onto the pavement. Charlotte jumps after him, lands hard, feels something pop in her ankle. Doesn't matter. She grabs him, pulls him up, and they run.
The alley spits them out onto a side street. Cars. People. Noise. She flags down a cab, shoves the fixer inside.
"Drive," she tells the driver. "Anywhere."
The cab pulls into traffic. Charlotte watches the side mirror. No one's following. Not yet.
The fixer's bent over, hands on his knees, trying to breathe. "Who are you?"
"Someone who needs what you know." Charlotte keeps her eyes on the mirror. "The files. Where are they?"
"Gone. I sold them."
"Bullshit."
"I sent them to a drop. Insurance." He wipes his mouth. "If I don't check in every twelve hours, they get released to every major player in the Northeast."
"Where's the drop?"
He looks at her. His eyes are sharp now. Less panic, more calculation. "Why'd you save me?"
"I need information. You're the only one who has it."
"About Wade's operation?"
"About something else." Charlotte leans forward. "Five years ago, Wade ran a job that involved moving kids. Off-books. No records. You were the logistics guy."
The fixer's face changes. "I don't know what you're—"
"Don't lie to me." Her voice drops. "I just saved your life. You owe me."
He's quiet for a long moment. The cab turns onto a busier street. Lights blur past the windows.
"There was a job," he says finally. "Wade called it a placement operation. Rich families, foreign buyers. We moved twelve kids that year."
"I need names. Locations."
"I don't have them. Wade kept it compartmented. Different people handled different pieces." He looks at her. "Why do you care?"
"Because one of those kids was mine."
His face changes. Something like guilt flickers there. "I didn't know."
"Now you do." Charlotte leans back. "The drop. Where is it?"
"Storage unit. Industrial district. Number 347." He pulls something out of his jacket. A small metal pin, scratched and old. School logo on it. "I found this in one of the files. Thought it was junk, but Wade wanted it back. Got real specific about it."
Charlotte takes the pin. Her hands are shaking. She knows this logo. Knows it. Except—
She can't remember where from.
The fixer's still talking. "Some private school upstate. St. Catherine's, I think. Wade sent three kids there before they got moved overseas."
St. Catherine's. The name means something. Should mean something.
Charlotte closes her eyes, tries to pull the memory forward. Lisa's face. The way she used to—
The way she used to what?
The memory's not there. There's a hole where it should be. She can see Lisa's hair, the color of it, dark like hers. Can see her hands, small and always moving. But her voice—
When did Charlotte last hear her daughter's voice?
She tries to pull it back. That last morning. Lisa had said something. Called her—
Mom.
She'd called her Mom.
Except Charlotte can't hear it anymore. Can't remember the exact sound. The cadence. The pitch.
It's gone.
"You okay?" the fixer asks.
Charlotte opens her eyes. Her chest feels tight. "Fine."
He doesn't look convinced. "Look, I don't know what Wade did with your kid, but if she went through St. Catherine's, you might be able to—"
He stops. His eyes go wide.
Charlotte sees it in the mirror. A black sedan, pulling up fast behind them.
"Get down," she says.
The rear window explodes. Glass everywhere. The cab driver screams, swerves. Charlotte shoves the fixer down, pulls her gun, fires back through the broken window.
The sedan swerves but doesn't back off. Another car pulls up alongside them. She sees the passenger window rolling down, sees the barrel.
"Out," she yells at the driver. "Now!"
The driver hits the brakes. The cab fishtails, slams into a parked car. Charlotte's head cracks against the seat. The world tilts. She tastes blood.
Doors opening. Footsteps.
She drags herself out of the cab, pulls the fixer with her. They stumble into an alley. Behind them, someone's shouting. More gunfire.
The fixer's bleeding. Shoulder hit. He's trying to hold it together, but he's going pale.
"Keep moving," Charlotte says.
They make it two blocks. Then the fixer's legs give out.
He collapses against a wall, slides down. Blood's spreading across his shirt. Too much blood.
"Go," he gasps. "They're coming for you, not me."
"Shut up." Charlotte presses her hand against the wound. The blood keeps coming. "You're not dying yet."
"St. Catherine's," he says. His voice is getting thin. "Check the enrollment records. 2019. That's when Wade sent them."
"I know. You told me."
"No." He grabs her wrist. His grip is weak. "The pin. That's not from the school."
"What?"
"It's a copy. Wade had them made. Gave one to each kid before they got moved. So the buyers could identify them." His eyes are losing focus. "Your daughter. If she had one. She might still—"
He stops breathing.
Charlotte stares at him. At the blood on her hands. At the pin still clutched in her other palm.
Sirens in the distance. Getting closer.
She stands up. Runs.
Two blocks over, she ducks into a 24-hour laundromat, locks herself in the bathroom. Her hands won't stop shaking. She turns on the sink, washes the blood off. Looks at the pin.
The logo is simple. A bird. Wings spread. Except it's not quite right. The engraving is too shallow. The metal's too new.
A copy.
Lisa had one of these.
Charlotte tries to remember. That last morning. Lisa getting ready for school. She'd been wearing—
What had she been wearing?
Charlotte can't see it anymore. The memory's dissolving. She can see the kitchen. The table. The chair where Lisa sat. But Lisa herself is blurry now. Fading.
No.
She grips the sink. Forces herself to focus. Lisa's face. Her voice. That last word.
Mom.
But she can't hear it.
The sound is gone.
Charlotte looks at herself in the mirror. There's blood on her collar. A cut above her eyebrow. Her eyes look hollow.
She's losing her.
Every loop, she's losing more.
Her phone buzzes. Unknown number.
She answers. Says nothing.
"You saved him." Marcus's voice. Calm. Almost amused. "Didn't think you'd bother."
Charlotte doesn't respond.
"He tell you about St. Catherine's?" Marcus continues. "About the pins?"
"How long have you been watching?"
"Long enough." A pause. "You're running out of time, Charlotte. Every reset, you lose a little more. How much of her do you have left?"
Her throat tightens. "What do you want?"
"Same thing you do. A way out." His voice drops. "But I'm three steps ahead, and you just burned your best source. So here's the deal. Next loop, you do something for me. Keep someone alive. Someone I need."
"Why would I—"
"Because I know where the real enrollment records are. The ones Wade didn't burn." Silence. "Your daughter's name is in there. So is where they sent her."
Charlotte's hand tightens on the phone. "You're lying."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm the only chance you've got left before you forget her face entirely." He hangs up.
Charlotte stands there, phone pressed to her ear, listening to dead air.
The pin is still in her hand. She looks down at it.
A bird. Wings spread.
Lisa wore one of these.
She's sure of it.
She just can't remember when.