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dimmed by the fog. The turret guards were distracted. At the far end of the lot, he could hear someone trying to start a car, but he couldn’t see them. Which meant no one saw him as he approached the bright blue four-­wheel-­drive monstrosity with a temporary tag still in the window.
    Officer Wilhite’s aunt had passed unexpectedly a month ago, and she’d left her only surviving relative a tidy sum of money, a fact the bullying guard couldn’t stop bragging about as he watched the inmates eat lunch. It couldn’t have happened to a less worthy person. Wilhite was the kind of man roaches looked down on for not having enough class. He was a thing that fed off whatever the bottom-­feeders left over. If he’d gone into crime—­and Gant wasn’t entirely sure the officer wasn’t supplementing his income with some illegal activity within the prison—­this was the guy the gang would leave for the cops to drag in.
    No one wanted him.
    Even the understaffed prison system hadn’t objected when Wilhite gave his notice.
    Gant hadn’t planned on leaving tonight. He’d been waiting for Detective Rose to be distracted or for the weather to be perfect. A tornado or a hurricane that drove the guards out of the turret would have been ideal. But fog on a night when Detective Rose was chasing someone a hundred miles away and Wilhite was leaving early? It was as if God Himself had stepped down from his cherub-­encircled throne and given Gant the key. It was divine intervention.
    Or diabolical.
    Someone swore in the depth of the fog.
    Gant smiled, fading back into the darkness, giving Wilhite a path to his car.
    â€œCrazy, sonofa—­” Wilhite stopped in the ring of sickly-­yellow light falling from the lamp overhead. He was watching the tower, head leaning this way and that as he decided whether to go back or not. The former prison guard shook his head. Turning back to his car, he fumbled with his new keys.
    Gant moved in for the kill.

 
    CHAPTER 4
    Every wave loses energy in time. Collapses into a truer iteration of time.
    ~ excerpt from Lectures on the Movement of Time by Dr. Abdul Emir I1–20740413
    Tuesday March 18, 2070
    Florida District 8
    Commonwealth of North America
    Iteration 2
    â€œG ood morning, Agent Rose!” Edwin said. “You look cheerful this morning.”
    Sam froze in the doorway to her office. “I do?” She didn’t feel cheerful.
    â€œVery chipper and alert, if I do say so, Agent Rose.” The junior agent beamed at her with all the enthusiasm of a floodlight. “I take it the case is going well?”
    â€œIt’s going.” And so am I . . .
    She flashed a smile at Agent Edwin and retreated to the safety of her desk. Waking up to the familiar smell of Mac’s soap, going for a run with a friend, letting Mac talk her into eating donuts . . . those were nice things. But she wasn’t happy about it. Mac was dangerous . . . no, that was unfair, she realized with a sigh. She was the dangerous one. It was her life in a tailspin. It was her future that was filled with torture and death.
    The danger was that Mac would insinuate himself into her life, again, and wind up getting hurt. She couldn’t allow that to happen.
    She spent a moment doodling stars on a piece of scrap paper, trying not to overthink the case. With a grumble, she finally shrugged off the dark premonitions and focused on the work in front of her. There was nothing major on the agenda today. A paperwork review, time scheduled to handle complaints, and a tentative meeting scheduled with Director Loren, the regional director for CBI in eastern Florida. Nine times out of ten, he told her to skip the meetings. No one needed input from District 8. Today, though, there’d be questions.
    The main office phone buzzed. A moment later, Agent Edwin called her on the intercom. “Agent Rose? I have Agent Petrilli on