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"Your name's on the list."
Emma dropped the folder on the table between us. The top page slid loose. My name stared back at me in red ink, wet-looking even under the dim kitchen light.
"What list," I said.
"The one my husband kept. The one he died for." She didn't sit. Her hand stayed on the folder edge, white-knuckled. "Six names. All dead. All seventy-two hours apart. You're number seven."
I pulled the page closer. The ink wasn't red. It was rust-brown. Old blood, maybe, or something close. Below my name: a date. Tomorrow.
"Where'd you get this."
"His safe. I opened it yesterday." Her voice cracked on the last word. "He wrote your name the day before he died."
I looked up. She was shaking. Not crying, just shaking, like her bones couldn't hold still anymore.
"Emma. Why didn't you show me this first."
"Because I didn't know if you were part of it." She pulled her hand back, crossed her arms. "I didn't know if you were hunting him or helping him."
"Helping who."
"Kyle West. The man on my security footage. The man who said 'this time you won't run.'" She breathed in sharp. "My husband knew him. There's a photo in the folder. They're shaking hands."
I flipped the page. There it was. Emma's husband, clean-cut, smiling. And Kyle West, same grin he'd had at my door, same dead eyes. The caption underneath, handwritten: *Grant Roy & K.W., May 14th. Agreement signed.*
"Agreement for what."
"I don't know. Grant never told me." She leaned forward, palms flat on the table. Close enough I could see the red veins in her eyes, smell the coffee on her breath. "But Kyle's been killing everyone who signed it. And you're next."
My phone buzzed. Both of us flinched.
I pulled it out. Unknown number. The same callback tone Emma had heard on her husband's phone, the same one that came before every death. My thumb hovered over the screen.
"Don't answer it," Emma said.
"I have to know."
"You'll die."
"I'm already on the list." I swiped. Held it to my ear.
Silence. Then breathing. Then Kyle West's voice, smooth as glass.
"Seventeenth loop, detective. You picked up faster this time."
I didn't speak. My pulse hammered in my throat.
"Emma's with you, isn't she. I can hear her breathing. She always stays close when you're scared." A laugh, low and easy. "Don't worry. I'm not coming for you yet. I need you to understand first."
"Understand what."
"That you can't win. You've tried sixteen times. Traps, ambushes, running, hiding. You even shot me once. Hurt like hell." Another laugh. "But I reset. I always reset. And you? You just keep dying."
Emma grabbed my wrist. Her fingers were ice-cold.
"How do I stop you," I said.
"You don't. That's the point." A pause. "But you can try. That's the fun part. I'll give you seventy-two hours. Same as the others. If you figure it out, maybe you'll break the loop. If not..." He let the silence hang. "Well. Eighteenth time's the charm, right?"
The line went dead.
I set the phone down. My hand was steady. Emma's wasn't. She still had my wrist, nails digging in.
"He's playing with us," she said.
"No. He's playing with me. You're leverage." I pulled the folder closer, flipped through the rest. Six names. Six accident reports. Six autopsy summaries. All clean. All wrong. "He needs you alive. Otherwise, he would've killed you with your husband."
"Why."
"Because you hired me. You brought me into this." I stopped on the last page. My name again, bigger this time, circled three times in that same rust-brown ink. "He's been waiting for me to show up. You're the bait."
Her grip loosened. She stepped back, arms wrapping around herself.
"So what do we do."
"We flip it." I stood, grabbed my jacket off the chair. "He thinks I'm the target. We make him think he's right. But this time, I'm ready."
"How."
"I set a trap. He shows up. I end it before he resets." I pulled out a small black device from my pocket, no bigger than a quarter. GPS tracker. Military-grade. "I plant this on him. Even if he kills me, we'll know where he goes. Lyla can pick him up."
Emma stared at the tracker. "And if he sees it."
"He won't. He's cocky. He's done this sixteen times. He thinks he knows how I move." I met her eyes. "But this time, I have you. He doesn't know what you know. He doesn't know you opened that safe."
She looked at the folder. At the names. At her husband's handwriting.
"What do you need me to do."
"Stay close. Play the scared client. When he comes, you run. I'll handle the rest." I pocketed the tracker. "But Emma. If this goes wrong, if I go down, you take this folder and you run. Don't stop. Don't look back. Lyla's number's in my phone. She'll protect you."
"You're talking like you've already lost."
"I'm talking like I've done this job before." I zipped my jacket. "And I'm still here. That counts for something."
She didn't answer. Just picked up the folder, held it against her chest like a shield.
My phone buzzed again. Not a call this time. A text.
From Lyla.
*Tracker's live. Signal's pinging. You need to see this.*
I opened the attachment. A map. A red dot, blinking steady.
Not at the warehouse where I'd planned the trap.
Not at Emma's house.
At my apartment. Right now.
"He's already there," Emma whispered.
I didn't answer. I was already moving toward the door, hand on my gun.
The red dot blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then it started moving.
Toward us.