Chapter 13 · Fourteen Tides, Minus One

"It's counting," Marco says, and his voice comes out flat, like he's reading a price off a crate. I stare at the box. The green digits don't blink anymore. They just fall. 04:57:12. 04:57:11. Numbers eating themselves in the dark, and somewhere behind me the freight elevator door sits open that one loose inch it wasn't open five minutes ago.

"Counting to what."

"Grand jury convenes at nine." He doesn't look at the box. He looks at me, and the cold room light — the backup strip, dim and blue — makes his face look carved instead of made.

"That thing's synced to a court calendar, Lila. Somebody wants a delivery deadline. My money says it's not the feds." My hand's still around the die in my coat pocket, thumb worn a groove into the edge of it from three weeks of holding on. I pull it out and hold it up between us like it means something to him, because it does.

"You gave me fourteen tides," I say.

"That's what the contract says. Not four hours and fifty-seven minutes."

"The contract's mine to keep. That box isn't.