Chapter 11 · Don't Trust My Face

"Gun down," the cop says, and it's my own voice.

I'm standing in the precinct lobby. Emma's five feet to my left, hands zip-tied behind her back. The guy wearing my face has his Glock aimed at her temple.

"Mark?" Emma's voice cracks. She's looking at me, not him.

"Don't trust my face," I say. "Kyle's wearing it."

The other Mark smiles. "Fifteenth loop, detective. You always say that line. She never believes you."

Emma jerks back, but there's a second cop behind her—Ramirez, my old partner's rookie. He shoves her forward. "Stay put, ma'am."

"Emma, listen—" I start.

"Drop the weapon," fake-Mark says again, louder. "Officer needs assistance, lobby, suspect armed."

Footsteps thunder down the stairs. I've got maybe ten seconds before the whole squad floods in here and shoots me on sight.

"You're not him," Emma says, but she's looking at the wrong Mark.

"I know," Kyle says, soft, concerned, perfect. "He's been lying to you from the start. Check his jacket. The frame-up three years ago? He did it. The case files are all upstairs."

I drop my gun. It clatters on the tile.

"Smart," Kyle says. "Hands up."

I raise them. "Emma. The tower.