Chapter 18 · Try Number Eighteen

"You broke into my car."

Lyla didn't look up from her coffee. She was parked two blocks from the precinct, engine off, windows cracked. Mark slid into the passenger seat before she could lock him out.

"Your locks are garbage," Mark said.

"So's your timing." She finally turned. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the kind that came from too many double shifts and not enough sleep. "I'm not doing this today."

"Kyle West. You have a file on him?"

Her jaw tightened. "Get out."

"Six deaths in six months. All accidents. All seventy-two hours apart."

"Mark—"

"He called me last night. Said it was his seventeenth try."

Lyla set her coffee down hard enough that it sloshed. "Seventeenth what?"

"Loop. Timeline. Whatever you want to call it." Mark leaned forward. "He resets every three days. If he doesn't like how things go, he just rewinds and tries again. We get one shot. He gets infinity."

She stared at him. Then she reached for her radio.

Mark grabbed her wrist.

"Don't."

"Let go."

"Lyla, listen—"

"You sound insane." Her voice dropped, and that was worse than yelling. "You sound like you need help."

"Then help me." He didn't let go.