My one comfort is that I know now I’m not the killer.
My heart refuses to believe Adam would shoot Trent and leave his body in a dumpster. But my head says I can’t trust him either, even though I don’t think he’s a murderer.
Aether gave us the guns in our backpacks—it must be them, trying to get rid of us and set me up as the murderer. Either Lynne failed to help us, or she lied to me and is in on it. Maybe, by trying to blackmail Aether, I’m the reason we’re being killed—although it would make more sense for them to just kill me then.
Oh God, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if anything I’ve done has changed the future, or only made it worse. Or if it’s impossible to change our fate at all. Maybe all we can do is let fate carry us toward our grim destiny.
No. Screw that. I grab my phone and dial Aether’s number with trembling fingers and ask for Lynne.
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist says. “She’s out of the office at the moment. Can I take a message?”
“No, just…tell her to call me.”
Damn. What else can I do? I don’t have Zoe or Chris’s number—but I do remember Chris saying he works for Downey Automotive. I call the shop, but some other guy answers. When I ask for Chris he puts me on hold for a good five minutes then says Chris isn’t there. I get the feeling he’s lying, but I give him my number and tell him it’s urgent.
I doubt Chris will call me. Not if he thinks there’s a chance I might be the killer. My only choice is to find Zoe. I know that by going to the crime scenes I might be helping them frame me for these murders, but I push off the wall and start toward the bus stop anyway. Because if Trent is dead, then we haven’t changed the future and we’re all going to die in the next few hours. And Zoe is next.
I leap off the bus and dash down the street toward the address memorized in my head. It’s like déjà vu, except the sun is lower and the neighborhood is nicer and there are tears in my eyes that won’t fall, not yet, because I refuse to believe Zoe’s already dead.
It took me two different buses to get to the area where Zoe’s girlfriend lives. I check my watch as I near the boxy, gray apartment building—5:46 p.m., and the police report said she died sometime between four thirty and six. I might still have time.
I circle the building until I find the right unit, then stand in front of the door listening, afraid to do anything else. I don’t want to see what’s inside, because a part of me already knows what I’ll find.
Finally, I knock. No answer.
I wait a moment and then knock again, harder. Still nothing. Why isn’t she answering? Is she already—?
“Zoe?” I yell through the door, pounding on it with my fists.
My inner voice is telling me to run, yelling that I’m setting myself up, but I don’t know what else to do. If there’s a chance Zoe is alive in there I have to try to save her.
I check the doorknob, using my shirt so I don’t leave fingerprints this time. It opens easily—the door isn’t locked.
“Zoe?” I step inside a small studio apartment with drab gray carpet. There’s a queen-size bed with a yellow comforter, a small TV, and a desk. Art decorates the walls, plastering them with sketches, paintings, charcoal drawings. I recognize it as Zoe’s work.
But the place has been trashed—drawers and cabinets open everywhere, clothes thrown across the floor, a broken lamp in the corner. Whoever was here must have been looking for something, but they’re already gone.
I hear the sound of running water from behind a closed door. I try to convince myself that Zoe is just taking a shower, but I remember the crime scene photos and I know what’s coming. I’m already crying as I open the door.
The shower’s on and the room is like a sauna, full of hot, moist air. I smell something metallic that sends waves of primal horror through me. I choke and cover my mouth with my shirt. It’s a tiny bathroom, just a sink, a toilet, and a tub crammed together. I force myself to push aside the shower curtain.
Zoe’s lying in the tub with the shower’s spray directly above her head. It drips down onto her blue hair and over her limp body, the water mixing with the blood and turning pink before washing down the drain. There’s more blood on the wall where the water doesn’t reach, and bullet holes in the tile behind her. My mind processes all of this and files it away before I can react, before I drop to my knees beside her and clutch my head, hyperventilating and making little gasping sounds.