Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

8:15 a.m.

Cal’s alarm shrieks him to consciousness with the song “A Brand New Day.” Groaning, he rolls onto his side to slap it quiet. Cal stretches, mentally preparing for the day to come. He staggers to the shower and clean shaves (nicking himself once) because today is a suit day.

The suit really only comes out when he, as the face and name of The Lightman Group, needs to make an impression. Today is one of those days. There’s a meeting to hammer out a deal with the Baltimore police department. Not their most illustrious client, but one that’s sure to give them a steady stream of cases and source of income. They are still digging their way out of the financial hole that Cal made a little over a year ago. (See? He’s taking responsibility for his actions and their consequences. That’s some personal growth, right there.) Cal knows that he owes it to Foster, to Gillian, to be at these meetings and show that he can be the reliable (business) partner that she deserves.

Reliable only if he makes it on time. Shaving and styling his hair had taken longer than anticipated. He’s going to have to weave his way through morning rush hour. With one last attempt to tie his tie into a knot that won’t strangle him, Cal is out the door.

9:02 a.m.

“Cal!” Gillian’s heels click across the floor as she greets him with a mixture of relief and annoyance. Her hands instantly flit to his tie, centering it and adjusting the knot to be snug against the top button of his shirt. “There you are. I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to make it.”

He snags an arm around her waist, attaching them at the hip, and lets her lead him down the hallway to the break room. “Sorry, love. Just a bit of traffic jam on the way. Promised you I’d be here.”

“And you read the file?”

Cal winces. He knew there was something he forgot to do. “Er. Not all of it. But Baltimore PD, right? Chief W… W…”

“Willis. Kyle Willis and his deputy,” she supplies. “Meeting is more of a formality than anything, but they’ll want to know examples of our successful cases with other police departments.”

“Got it.” He makes a mental note to actually look at the file and jot down a few notes of example cases. Today is all about impressing her. (And the Baltimore PD. But mostly her.) She doesn’t sound upset with him at all for forgetting to read the brief, and he’s pretty sure that the suit is helping. She’s always given him an extra appreciative look whenever he dresses up.

Anna joins them in the break room with a Tupperware container. “Dr. Foster! I made some cupcakes. Want one?”

“None for me?” Cal asks with a pout.

“You don’t like cupcakes,” Anna says.

“But I do!” Gillian accepts with glee (because of course she does). “Thank you! These look delicious.”

“Cupcakes aren’t a proper breakfast, love,” Cal ribs her fondly. There’s a bit of frosting on the top of her nose after she takes a bite, and he doesn’t plan on telling her about it until the second their clients get here.

“Start the day off right with a little bit of sugar.” She plucks a sprinkle off the top and eats it. “I have to stay sweet somehow.”

“Think you’re sweet enough as you are, darling.”

An adorable blush spreads across her cheeks, and Cal thinks his chances of taking her out to dinner tonight are looking optimistic. He opens his mouth to ask, when—

“Shit!” Loker’s voice is accompanied by the distinct sound of a splash. Coffee stains the front of his green button up and drips onto the file he’s holding.

“Not a single bite,” Gillian commands, passing the cupcake to Cal and exchanging it for a stack of napkins to help Loker dry off.

“Thanks. I just came in to tell you that our clients are in the meeting room, and they’re ready when you are. I’d join, but …” Loker gestures down at the state of his shirt.

“Don’t worry about it,” Cal says in an uncharacteristic act of charity. “We can take it from here. Thanks for getting everything set up.”

10:30 a.m.

“Well that went well,” Cal says after showing their clients out the door. (A bit much, maybe, but he can feel Gillian checking him out, so absolutely worth it.) He was his charming self. Gillian was a gracious host. They have a preliminary deal, the fine print to be reviewed by their respective lawyers and a final contract to be signed soon. A successful meeting by any standard.

“It did,” she agrees gently. “Thank you. Really. I know how much you hate this sort of thing.”

It hurts a little that he’s set the bar so low for himself, but Cal is working to raise it. Even if it means sitting through boring business meetings. “Don’t mind doing it if it’s for you.”

She shakes her head with a laugh. “Liar. I saw you checking your watch every few minutes. You couldn’t wait for it to be over.”

“Dinner tonight?” Cal asks to change the subject (and he still thinks his chances are pretty high that she says yes).

She smiles, sweeter than the cupcake, he’s sure of it. “Sure. Your place?”

“I was actually thinking we could go out.” Cal hates how he sounds when it comes out, all nervous and hesitant. He manages to rescue it with, “I am wearing my one and only suit, after all. Might as well get a full day’s use out of it.”

7:43 p.m.

Cal is doing a very good job of not messing this up. Gillian looks relaxed and hedonistic, right up until the moment his phone lights up on the table.

“Emily?” Gillian guesses.

He shakes his head when he reads the contact name and considers lying but ultimately decides against it. “Wallowski.”

A controlled sip of wine is juxtaposed with her dark expression of jealousy that is anything but. His phone continues to ring. She thrusts her chin in it’s direction. “Do you need to take that?”

Cal holds the side button until it falls silent. “Nah.”

The glass in front of her mouth can’t hide her triumphant smile. Cal reaches across the table and takes her hand, squeezing it. The server brings out their first course, and the easy conversation from earlier is restored. It’s fun and flirty and friendly. Just two friends, enjoying dinner (never mind the fact Cal’s pining for her harder than an evergreen forest), until their main courses come out.

“So,” Gillian starts between bites of quiche Lorraine, “is there any particular reason you invited me out tonight?”

Cal swallows carefully as not to choke on his words. “Can’t I just have dinner with you because I like you?”

“You like me?” Her eyebrow has quirked up in amusement.

“Of course I like you. Like you loads, actually.” Perhaps it’s a little too honest, but there isn’t a point in hiding it. Not sure if he can hide it anymore, at this point.

She hums and he makes the mistake of assuming she’s going to drop the subject, but then she lets her head angle away while keeping him in sight through her eyelashes when dessert comes. “Two people that like each other going out to dinner. So this was a date, then?”

“If you want it to be,” he replies with a shrug of his shoulders to pretend like her answer won’t matter to him either way.

Gillian shrugs right back. “I only want it to be if that was your original intention.”

Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating and terrifying and lovely woman. Of course Gillian isn’t going to let him off the hook easily, not about something as important as this.

“Doesn’t count as a date if both parties are unaware that it’s a date when agreeing to the invitation.” Cal takes in her boggled expression at his sudden eloquence and waves her off. “That’s what Emily told me, anyway.”

Gillian resumes eating and continues the conversation casually, as if they aren’t in the middle of redefining their relationship. “What does Emily tell you if both people decide in the middle that it’s a date? Does it count then?”

“I suppose she’d be okay with that, yeah. She says it’s all about consent.” Cal, despite his respect for the word and concept, pretends to spit it out like it’s internet slang. Honestly, it was a bit cheeky of Emily to throw that at him when he’s the one who taught her about consent in the first place. Teenagers, pretending like they know everything.

“And do you? Consent?”

“Yes,” In for a penny, in for a pound. “You?”

Gillian gives him a thousand-watt smile. “Yes.”

10:27 p.m.

Cal has been a gentleman all night: He picked up the bill, walked with her through the cobblestone streets, and indulged her craving for ice cream. (How she had room for that after a three-course meal which included a crème brûlée, he doesn’t know.)

Now, they’re sitting in his car, holding hands. Cal thought that he would be less nervous by this point. After three hours and an agreed upon date, he should feel more relaxed, but there’s more pressure not to mess things up now.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” he offers. It’s ridiculous, barely a hundred steps, if that. The area is safe. They both know it’s a ploy to spend a little extra time together, even if it’s only a few seconds. He lets go of her hand to come around to the other side and open the door for her, giving her his hand once again. They walk without a word to her door step.

“Thank you for tonight.” Gillian stands there, gorgeously expectant. There’s a subtle tilt of her head and parting of her lips as her eyes flick down to his. Cal takes a half step to close the distance and kisses her. It’s soft, chaste, and utterly romantic.

“Good night, love,” he whispers.

“Good night, Cal.”

11: 31 p.m.

Cal is still thinking about the feeling and taste of her mouth on his when his phone rings. Fumbling around in his pocket, he considers just turning it off because who could possible want him at this hour? Still, though, he checks the contact name just in case it’s Emily or—

Gillian. It’s Gillian.

“Hey, love,” he answers. “What’s going—”

There’s a scream. He never understood the phrase bloodcurdling until that very moment. Quickly, he bolts off the couch and grabs for his keys, not bothering with a coat.

“Foster! What’s wrong?” he shouts as he starts his car. 18 minutes. That’s how long it takes to get to her place when he floors it and uses every short cut he knows. She has to hang in there for 18 minutes.

There’s the sound of a door slam accompanied by her panting. “It’s him, Cal, it’s—”

There’s the sound of a struggle, and Cal can’t quite tell what’s happening, but he thinks she’s dropped the phone. She screams again. The line goes dead, her voice abruptly cut off.

Cal tries again, but she doesn’t pick up. The light he pulls up to turns red, and he swears. There’s little traffic, so he chances it and runs the light. With one hand on the wheel and one eye on the road, he uses the other to call emergency services.

“911, what is your emergency?” The voice on the other end is calm and professional, the anthesis of how Gillian sounded.

“Yes, hello. I’m calling to report—” He pauses. What is he reporting? “—a break in, I think. I was on the phone, and she screamed and told me ‘it’s him’ and she needs help—”

“Sir, I’m going to need you to slow down. What is your name?”

“Cal Lightman.”

“And your friend’s name and address?”

Cal takes a breath and gives the operator Gillian’s name and address. “She needs police and maybe an ambulance.”

“Okay. I’m dispatching a unit. Can you tell me more about who you think she was talking about?”

“I don’t know. That’s all she said.” Cal’s running through a mental list, but it’s long. There’s no shortage of people they’ve pissed off while uncovering the truth. Their jobs are not without risk. It’s not even the first time her house has been broken into.

“Have you been able to contact her since?”

“No,” he replies. “I tried her again, but she didn’t pick up.”

“Okay. Are you on the way to her house?”

“Yeah. I’m about 10 minutes away.”

“Alright,” the operator says. “If you get there before the police unit does, do not go in. You don’t know what’s happening inside. It might be dangerous. If you see your friend and she’s hurt, an operator can talk you through first aid. Got it?”

“I understand,” he says, fully intending to enter the house if he gets there before the police or the ambulance.

“Okay. I’m going to hang up now. Emergency services are about 5 minutes away from her, okay?”

11:49 p.m.

Cal parks in the middle of the street. That’s as close as he can get with the caution tape that’s blocked off Gillian’s house. Sirens echo down the streets. Red and blue lights illuminate the faces of curious neighbors who have come out of their homes to see what the ruckus is about. He pushes past the small crowd and ducks under the tape and immediately runs into a broad-chested police officer.

“Sir, I’m going to need you to stay back.”

“That’s my partner!” Cal yells. “I’m the one who called!”

The man’s face blanches. He’s young, scared, and pretending to act more in control than he is. “Uh—”

“Can I see her? Please? I need to know if she’s okay.” Cal tries to push past him, but the younger man is stronger.

Another officer joins the first. He’s older and worn, the kind of face that’s seen too much. “My name is Detective Swanson. I take it you’re Cal Lightman?”

“Yeah. It’s Gillian, Gillian Foster in there. She’s my. My,” he stutters, unsure of what to call her. She’s more than a friend. More than anything, really.

“Come here, son.” Swanson puts an arm over Cal’s shoulders. He wants to bristle at a man that couldn’t be more than 5 years his senior calling him son but he hates how he sounds, all apologetic and grim. Cal knows what he’s going to say but that doesn’t make him any more prepared for when Swanson says, “I’m here because I’m a homicide detective.”

Cal feels vomit, every bite of their three-course dinner date, come up his throat. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

“I’m so sorry. I want you to know that I will do everything in my ability to solve this. It won’t bring her back, but I hope I can bring you peace.” Swanson sits them down on the open trunk of an ambulance. The one that isn’t going anywhere because Gillian can’t be saved. A shock blanket crinkles as he unfolds it, draping it over Cal’s shoulder.

“Can I—” Cal swallows. “Can I see her?”

Swanson shakes his head apologetically. “I can’t let you do that, son. It’s all evidence. And I don’t want you to have to see her like that.”

Cal sucks in a breath. It leaves his lungs as an awful braying sound. Tears, hot and uncontrollable sting his cheeks, the cut he gave himself shaving this morning. Breathing hurts. His throat is closing. He can’t see anything that isn’t blurry. Swanson’s voice sounds so very far away.

Why her? Why now? Who did this? What is he supposed to do now? How is he going to tell everyone that Gillian is gone?

Everything is wrong. He can’t tell left from right, up from down, past from present without Gillian.

Cal’s watch ticks from 11:59 to midnight.

Chapter Text

8:15 a.m.

Cal jerks upright at the first shrill cry of his alarm clock. Breathing hard, he smacks at it until it falls off his nightstand and goes quiet. After a second, he crawls to the floor to confirm that it really is morning. His memory between last night and now are a blank space. Cal could have sworn that just a second ago he was openly sobbing in the back of an ambulance with Detective Swanson’s hand on his back.

In a daze, Cal stumbles into the shower. The cold water sluices over him, taking his sweat away with it. He cups a puddle in his hands and splashes it onto his face. It seems that his facial hair had already grown back from yesterday’s close shave, but he may as well have a full beard now. There isn’t a point in trying to tidying himself up today. Or ever, maybe. Lord knows he only ever did it for Gillian.

Who is dead.

Cal shuts off the water after a few minutes (or maybe half an hour, his time perception isn’t great right now) and forces his tears back down, roughly drying any escapees off with a towel. There isn’t time for crying. Not yet. First, he has to get to work and tell everyone else. It’s possible, given the gap in his memory, that he already has, but there’s a good chance he hasn’t. Communication had always been Foster’s thing.

The first piece of clothing he finds is the suit from yesterday. He dons it without ironing it and doesn’t bother with a tie or jacket. This will have to be good enough.

8:53 a.m.

Cal doesn’t make any particular effort to snake through traffic, but he still arrives a bit earlier than usual thanks to his short shower and lack of any effort into his presentation today. A trance comes over him in the parking lot, and he sits in his car, zoning out at the concrete pole in front of him.

Cal doesn’t want to go in. He doesn’t want to go into their office and look at their staff knowing that it will never be theirs anymore. With Gillian gone, it will all fall to him. Once upon a time, he might have wanted that. Now, it feels like the worse possible reality.

The honk of a horn somewhere else in the garage kicks Cal back into gear. With a stealing breath, he exits his vehicle and climbs the stairs. He braces himself and enters the office.

What he sees when he turns the corner has him tripping over his own feet.

“Cal!” Gillian voice carries down the hallway over the sound of her shoes. She’s beautiful enough to be a hallucination, but then she gets close enough to run her fingers through his uncombed hair. “There you are. I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to make it.”

His mouth flaps uselessly a few times before he manages, “Gil?”

“Yes?” She looks him over, eyebrows pinching with worry. “Are you okay?”

Cal finds her waist and pulls her closer than he normally would in full view of anyone that might walk down the main hallway but he needs to know that she’s really here, not in her house surrounded by caution tape or in a body bag at the morgue. “I should be asking you that. The phone call last night—”

“I didn’t call you last night. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Gillian presses the back of her hand to his forehead as if checking for a fever.

“What day is it?” Cal asks.

“Tuesday. Today is Tuesday. We have the meeting with the Baltimore PD, remember?” There’s an edge of exasperation in her voice, like she expected him to forget even though she hoped for better. “It’s with—”

“Chief Kyle Willis,” Cal finishes. The world has taken on a deeply surreal quality. Never has he ever had such a realistic dream before.

Gillian brightens, oblivious to how deeply disturbed he is by all this. Instead, she hooks an arm around his waist and starts towards the break room. “So you did read the file! That means we have time for a snack before they get here.”

Cal does his best to keep up both physically and mentally, but it’s very difficult, especially when Anna shows up with a set of cupcakes just like he remembers.

Gillian accepts with the same cheerfulness and even gets the bit of frosting on the tip of her nose again. She nudges into him playfully. “No comment about eating sweets before 10?”

“You have to stay sweet somehow,” Cal says, but the words taste bitter on his tongue.

She turns pink under her freckles. Any other day, he would rejoice in that except it’s Tuesday again and—

“Shit!” Loker’s coffee goes all over his shirt and file. Again.

Cal already has his hand out to accept the cupcake when Gillian says, “Not a single bite.”

“Thanks.” Loker lets her dab off the worst of the spill while he tries to rescue the coffee-soaked file. “I just came in to tell you that our clients are in the meeting room, and they’re ready when you are. I’d join, but …”

There’s a silence. Cal forgot what he said the first time. Fortunately, Gillian jumps in for him. “It’s alright. We’ve got it covered. Thank you for welcoming them in and getting the room ready.”

10:30 a.m.

“I think that went well,” Gillian says, sitting back down after showing the chief and his deputy out the door.

Cal nods, mentally distant. He’d done well in the meeting, said all his lines at the right time, even remembered which anecdotes made them laugh yesterday. (Yesterday? He’s not sure if he should be referring to it as yesterday.) “Yeah. It did.”

“Thank you. Really. I know how much you hate this sort of thing.” She smiles at him.

“It’s alright.” This is the point at which he asked her out to dinner. But he doesn’t want dinner. He wants alcohol.

Her smile morphs into a frown. She sets her hand on top of his, rubbing her thumb across the back of it. “I know I’ve already asked twice, but you seem off. You can go home if you need.”

“I’m fine.” And then a plan forms in his head. If she’s attacked tonight, then all he has to do is make sure she isn’t in the house. Cal flips his hand palm up to give her hand a squeeze. “Fancy some celebratory drinks later tonight? You pick the place.”

She hesitates for just a moment before accepting. “Sure. Let’s go to that pub on the corner.”

7:43 p.m.

Cal almost misses the buzz of his phone in his pocket. Fumbling, he fishes it out and has to squint while holding it at arm’s length (not like he brought his reading glasses in). He frowns, remembering this part. He hadn’t answered it “yesterday.” Should he today? Would it make a difference?

Gillian licks beer foam off of her upper lip. “Gonna take that?”

“Nah,” he decides, stuffing it back into his pocket.

“Who was it?” She’s much worse at covering her emotions after a few drinks, and her jealousy is easily visible through her attempted mask of curiosity.

“Wallowski.”

Gillian’s eyes flash green. “What did she want?”

“Dunno. Didn’t answer.” As much Cal he enjoys that she can be possessive on him, he doesn’t enjoy the insecurity that underpins it. “Love, there’s a reason I invited you out for drinks instead of her.”

Her shoulders lower slightly. After a moment, she blinks slowly, seemingly satisfied. With one long gulp, she finishes the rest of her mug.

“Another?” Cal offers.

Gillian narrows her eyes with a laugh, all playful suspicion. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Lightman?”

“Think you’re a little past that.”

“Question still stands.”

“We can slow down. Stop for ice cream, sober up a bit, and then hit another bar,” he suggests. Getting her drunk isn’t the intention, exactly, he’s just trying to keep her out of her house. He’s starting to think he’s got the timing wrong, though, because it’s still early and she didn’t call until after half 11 yesterday. By the way things are going, Gillian is going to be sloshed long before 9.

“It’s a week night,” Gillian protests. “We have to go to work tomorrow.”

He shrugs. “Right then. Guess we don’t have to stop for ice cream.”

“No! I didn’t say that. It’s only 8, after all.”

9:56 p.m.

God, she’s adorable like this. She has her head burrowed into the side of his neck, her breath warming the join of his shoulder. They’ve been sitting on this bench so long that Cal’s ass is starting to go numb, but he’s not planning on doing anything to dislodge her, not when she’s being so openly affectionate.

“You smell nice,” she mumbles. “Like laundry detergent.”

He lets out a surprised laugh. “You’re being awfully cuddly.”

As if to prove his point, she nuzzles into him, lips brushing against his collarbone. She lifts her head off his shoulder, nose dragging along his cheek as she sits more upright. “Cal?”

“Yes, love?”

“Kiss me?” Gillian gazes at him with glittering eyes. Cal caves and presses his lips to the side of her mouth as they’ve done a number of times before. She huffs in irritation when he pulls away. “That’s not what I meant.”

“When you’re sober.” Cal’s dealt with a drunk, handsy Gillian before. As much as she presses at all of the weak points of his (admittedly limited) self-control, he’d never let her take a step like that while not of sound mind.

She pouts at him cutely. “You wouldn’t let me when we’re sober.”

“I would, darling. I would.”

“Promise?” She extends her pinky finger towards him.

He links his with hers and kisses his thumb to seal it. “Promise.”

Gillian nods seriously, and then sighs, setting her head onto his shoulder. “Cal. You’re gonna have to drive me home.”

“I’m too pissed for that.” That had been an unexpected element of his plan. He knows how high of a tolerance Gillian has and tried to pace himself accordingly, but it’s been a while since he really, really drank. His brain is a little more scrambled than ideal to prevent her murder. The best he can do is try to extend the amount of time they spend together and not let her out of his sight. “Share a cab? To my place or yours?”

“Mine,” she decides.

That’s a good sign. She only invites him over when she wants him to stay. His house is for evenings; her house is for nights. He thinks it has something to do with controlling the environment, but psychoanalysis is her department. Maybe he can convince her to talk a walk later to get her out of the house.

Cal stands and extends his hand to help her up. “Right then. Let’s go.”

10:24 p.m.

After the cab drops them off, they find themselves on the couch. The silence, quiet and peaceful, envelopes them. Gillian leans heavily against him. Cal gently pushes her the other direction, not to push her away but to encourage her to lie down, letting her take him down too. They settle with Cal wedged against the back of the couch and Gillian against him. Cautiously, he drapes his arm over her waist, and to his delight, she slots her fingers into his to keep him there.

“You okay?” she asks.

Her hair is tickling his nose with every breath he takes, but it’s a small price to pay for getting to spoon her. “Yeah, comfortable.”

“No, I mean. This morning. You were … scared.”

He presses a kiss to her shoulder. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, love.”

“I will if I want to,” Gillian responds petulantly.

They lie on the couch for a while. Gillian drifts off, he can tell by the way her breathing goes from controlled, even breaths to a rhythmic puff that isn’t quite a snore. Cal would be content to let her spend the night in his arms, but he knows that she would think herself a terrible host if she had unwittingly made him spend a night on the couch. It’s impossible for him to get up without waking her, so he shakes her gently.

“Gil, darling,” he whispers. “Time for bed.”

She grumbles something unintelligible. Cal repeats himself a little louder, and she sits up slowly, as though her limbs are twice as heavy as normal. With her arm over his shoulder, Cal half-carries and half-walks with her to her bed where she collapses on top of the sheets. It takes a bit of a tussle, but he manages to work the comforter out from under her and tucks her into bed, all while she watches through groggy, low-lidded eyes.

“Good night,” Gillian says as he leans over to flick off the lamp on her nightstand.

He ducks down to give her a kiss on the forehead. “Night, love.”

If he were any less tired or any more sober, Cal would have sat back down in the hallway and kept guard over her. But he’s so exhausted. The emotional toll of doing this day over with the pressure of still having to prevent her murder weighs on him.

Cal takes a quick look at his watch. Gillian hadn’t called him until a little after 11:30. That’s still almost an hour from now, and he’s in no shape to fight off an intruder of any sort. 15 minutes of shut eye can’t hurt, he decides, and takes himself to the guest bedroom for a quick nap.

11: 31 p.m.

Cal awakes to the sound of a scream so terrified, it borders on sounding inhuman.

Gillian.

Cal stumbles out of bed, uncoordinated and still a little drunk. Somewhere in the house, a door slams. He curses himself for falling asleep and untangles himself from the sheet clinging to his leg. Gillian screams again.

Then there’s the unmistakable crack of a gunshot. Gillian’s screaming stops abruptly.

Cal throws open his bedroom door. At the end of the hallway, a figure dashes by. He doesn’t even consider going after them, even as the front door opens. Instead, Cal swipes at the walls, searching for the light switch.

“Gil! Where are you?” he shouts. Her bedroom appears empty, but the door is open, and he knows that he closed it behind him after he put her to bed. Blindly, Cal crosses the room and checks the bathroom.

He slips on wet tile, catching himself on the sink, and his shoulder catches the light switch.

Blood.

Blood everywhere.

Gillian is lying in the bathtub, shower curtain on the floor, with a gunshot wound to the chest. Her eyes are vacant an unfocused, her skin is pale. Cal collapses to the floor, ignoring the pain in his knees. He stabs two fingers at her pulse point and is relieved when she winces in pain.

“Cal,” she chokes.

“Shh. Don’t try to talk, love. I’m going to call 911, okay? I’ll be right back.” Cal runs back into her bedroom and grabs the wireless landline. He puts it on speaker, punches in the numbers, and puts a bath towel over Gillian’s chest. With two hands, he puts pressure on her wound, trying not to feel guilty about the way she whimpers.

“911.” It’s the same voice from yesterday. “What is your emergency?”

“My partner was shot. I’m at her house. She’s—She’s bleeding a lot.” Cal can feel the towel become wet under his hands. She’s losing too much blood.

“Okay, I’m dispatching an emergency response team and a police unit. Are you putting pressure on the wound?”

“Yeah.” He’s afraid to look, but he suspects there might be an exit wound from the way blood seems to be pooling out under her and draining.

“Keep doing that,” the operator instructs. “Who shot her?”

Gillian wheezes something out, but he can’t make it out, doesn’t try to decode her lips. “I don’t know.”

“Are they still there?”

“I don’t think so. I saw them go to the front door. I heard it open, and haven’t heard them come back.”

“Okay. Please stay on the line. ETA on the ambulance is about 5 minutes.”

Gillian weakly reaches up to his chest leaving a red smear on his formerly white shirt. “Love. You.”

“I love you too, darling.” Cal feels like he’s going to throw up. “Stay with me. Please, please.”

Her hand falls away. Cal feels her slipping away beneath him. If only he’d let them stay on the couch. Maybe then he could have protected her. Or insisted that she come to his place.

“EMS!” someone shouts from the front door.

“In here!” Cal yells.

A group of EMTs crowd into the bathroom. One of them pulls Cal out of the way.

“What’s her blood type?”

“O negative.” He knows because she donates as often as she can out of some deep altruism, but now it’s her that needs that blood, the one that’s all over his hands and soaked into the towel and staining the bathtub.

“GSW to the chest,” a different EMT says. “Massive blood loss. Penetrating chest cavity and likely puncture to the heart.”

No, no, no. Not her heart. That’s the best part of Gillian.

“No pulse.”

“She was just talking a moment ago,” Cal insists. “Isn’t there something you can do?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” one of them begins, “but her injuries were too great. Even if we had gotten here right when it happened …”

Cal collapses to the floor in a ball and cries, rocking himself back and forth. He’s still inconsolable when the police arrive a minute later. Detective Swanson introduces himself and tries to get Cal to answer some questions, but he can’t speak.

Cal’s watch ticks from 11:59 to midnight.

Chapter Text

8:15 a.m.

Cal awakes with a shout. His alarm clock shouts back. He takes it and hurls it at the wall hard enough that it breaks upon impact.

His head pounds, his stomach rolls. Cal rushes to the bathroom and kneels in front of the porcelain in time to vomit, knees twinging at the hard tile surface. When he’s emptied his stomach and flushed the vile, mildly alcoholic smelling waste, he sits back on the floor.

That’s when he takes a look at his skin. His hands are clean. Not a trace of blood on them. His knees, however, tell a different story. They are bruised yellow, the sort of mustard-stain color they turn after a week or so. He presses it. It’s tender, but not nearly as much as it should be for the impact he took last night on Gillian’s bathroom floor.

Gillian.

Cal feels his insides twist again. As he pukes, he makes a promise to himself.

He’s going to do whatever it takes to keep Gillian safe today.

9:06 a.m.

“Cal!” Gillian’s heels are as sharp as her tone. “There you are. I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to make it.”

He feels something ease in his chest when he see that she’s alive, without a hole in her chest, and then he’s taken up by his urgent need to keep her safe. “Foster, there’s—”

“You look terrible.” She steps into his personal space and wrinkles her nose. “And smell like alcohol. Are you drunk?”

“No,” Cal denies honestly. Yes, he smells like a liquor store, but he’s stone cold sober. Has been since he felt her last heartbeat under the palm of his hands.

“Hung over, then.” Gillian sneers in disgust. “Captain Willis is already here. I can’t deal with this—” She guest res at his general state of being. “—right now. Loker spilled coffee on himself, Torres is out on a case, and you’re clearly not fit to be in the meeting this morning. I’ll speak to him alone. We’ll talk after.”

“Wait! You’ve got a bit of …” Cal gestures to her nose, the only evidence of the cupcakes this morning.

She wipes it off quickly. “Don’t you dare try to run away from this conversation. I’ll see you in my office.”

10:33 a.m.

“What the hell, Cal?” Everything about her body language, from the way she slams the door to the flare of her nostrils says that she’s livid.

It would be kind of hot if he weren’t trying to save her life.

“How’d the meeting go?” Cal tries in an attempt to ease into their conversation.

“Fine, no thanks to you.” No such luck, then. “Explain yourself,” she demands. “Don’t try to be cute.”

Cal smiles in spite of himself. “You think I’m cute?”

“Cut it out. I know you don’t like the administrative part of this job, but it’s what keeps us afloat. I thought you were finally starting to get that. There is no excuse for you to show up late and hung over when we are trying to get a steady contract signed.” Gillian takes another step closer and scowls down at him. “What happened last night?”

He swallows hard, attempting to block the flood of memories from last night. “Wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

There’s a half second where Cal considers telling her the truth, that this is his third Tuesday in a row, but she’s made it clear that he’s on thin ice already. What he says has to be believable, even if it isn’t the full truth. “Your life is in danger.”

Gillian blinks a few times, arms uncrossing. One less defensive tell. That’s a good sign.

“Who?” Gillian asks. She knows just as well as he does that their list of dangerous enemies is long. Less so now that Cal has mostly cut his ties to various criminals and they’ve stopped taking FBI cases, but still. Plenty of local crime organizations want them dead.

“I don’t know,” he admits. It occurs to him that it might not be anyone that they know, except for the first time, Gillian said, “it’s him” like she recognized her assailant. And the way she was killed yesterday, execution style, seemed personal.

Today’s Gillian scoffs, unaware of the danger she’s in. “I’m disappointed in you, Cal. Go home. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day.”

7:43 p.m.

Cal does go home, but he brings his work laptop with him. For hours, he pores over years of cases, tracking which criminals have been released or transferred or escaped. Despite his effort and research, he can’t find anything unusual. There are dozens of suspects.

Cal doesn’t realize how much time has passed until Wallowski’s phone call comes through. He declines it out of habit. It’s more a reminder of the time than anything else. He doesn’t have time for Wallowski right now. Gillian is his focus.

Perhaps it’s time to take a more direct approach.

8:05 p.m.

Cal knocks on her door. It’s surreal to be standing in the place they had their first (real) kiss two days ago, but he tries to put that from his mind.

“I thought I’d made myself clear,” Gillian says when she answers the door. She looks … different from this morning. Nothing major, she’s still in the same outfit despite it being late, but there’s a touch more makeup and she’s done something to her hair that’s made it a little more wavy.

“Were you on a date?” he blurts.

“I was with Captain Willis.”

Well now that just hurts. “You went on a date with Mr. Willy?”

“Knock it off. I had to go dinner with him to smooth things over and explain why you weren’t at the meeting. You flirt with clients all the time to get your way. I’m not sure why it shouldn’t be any different for me, not that it’s your business whom I go to dinner with.” She continues to glare at him. “Why are you here?”

“Someone wants you dead,” Cal insists.

Gillian rolls her eyes and starts to close the door. “Not this again.”

“Foster, I’m serious.” He blocks the frame. “You can’t go back in there.”

“I understand that you’re scared, but I promise you that I’m safe.” She’s using her therapist voice. He hates that.

“We’ll do this the hard way, then.” Cal lunges, grabbing her wrists and starts to pull.

Immediately, Gillian starts to struggle against him. She wrenches backwards and twists her wrist. Unfortunately for her, Cal is both heavier, stronger, and more experienced in fighting. He clamps down harder and yanks.

“Hey. Hey!” she shouts, increasing in pitch and volume. “Stop it! You’re hurting me.”

That makes Cal pause and really look at her. Her eyes are wide but pupils are constricted.

Fear.

She’s afraid. He’s seen her afraid plenty of times before, but this is different.

This time, she’s afraid of him.

He lets go, and Gillian takes her hands back, rubbing at the red marks on her wrists.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” she says with a tremor, “but go home. Please.”

11:15 p.m.

Cal does not go home. Instead, he sits in his car with greasy drive through food. Her house is ideal for watching because her door faces another house and her window faces the back yard. Cal can sit just across the street with Gillian none the wiser.

He is willing to admit what he’s doing: A stakeout.

It’s boring as hell, but it has given him time to think. The fact that his phone has reset both nights is frustrating, but he knows that Gillian is attacked around 11:30. If he times it well, maybe Cal can stop the murder before it happens. Too late, Gillian dies. Too early, the murder might get away and try another day.

Cal takes out his phone and dials 9 and 1. Stops. Considers. The response time has been about 10 minutes, maybe less. That puts them arriving around 11:25. With a renewed sense of determination, he pushes 1 again.

“911, what is your emergency?” Same voice.

Cal pitches his voice high and urgent. “Hi I’m calling to report gunshots in my neighborhood. It’s coming from my across the street neighbor.”

“Right. What’s your address? And your neighbor’s, if you know it.”

Cal gives the operator Gillian’s address and the address of the house he’s sitting in front of.

“Got it. Stay in your home. Police will be there within 10 minutes.”

“Thanks,” he says, and waits. It’s 11:17 according to his watch. Seven minutes later, red and blue lights of a police vehicle come down the street. The sirens are off, an eerie silent show.

Cal watches as the officer approaches cautiously, then disappears into the little walkway between the houses. Quietly, he opens his car door and slinks behind the car parked next to his to give him a sight line to the door.

Gillian answers the door. Her body language is open yet confused. As the officer explains the reason for the visit, Gillian remains calm and reassuring, but even from the distance, he can see the anger rising in her as she scans the street. Cal ducks away, but it’s too late. He knows that he’s been seen.

Should he drive away? That might look suspicious to the police. And if he leaves, Cal looses all opportunity to stop the murder.

By the way Gillian is crossing the street, he might be murdered first. “This has gone too far, Cal.”

“It’s for your own good!” He checks over her shoulder. Nothing at her house. Did he succeed this time?

“It's starting to feel like a restraining order might be for my own good.” She rubs at her wrists again where they are faint bruises forming.

“I can live with that as long as you’re safe.” Cal thinks about grabbing her shoulders, but leaves his hands at his side when she flinches away. “Would I lie to you?”

“Yes.” Her answer is rapid fire.

“Gil, your life and Em’s.” Cal takes a moment to be grateful that Emily hasn’t been caught in the middle of this, thanks to her spending fall break in Chicago with Zoë and Rudi's. “You two are the most important things to me. Would I lie to you about that?”

She hesitates, but her answer remains the same. “Yes.”

The first gunshot rings out like a crack of thunder. On reflex, Cal covers his head and drops to the ground.

“You hit?” he asks over the ringing in his ears. Gillian shakes her head. Cal goes to stand up, but something hits the top of his head. Pain blooms at the crown of his skull, and his vision tunnels.

An explosion sounds right next to his ear. Gillian grabs at her chest and falls to the ground.

“No!” he yells. Cal strips off his jacket and gives it to her to hold. Judging by the point blank range and what he say last night, Gillian isn’t going to make it. That leaves him a choice: stay with her, or chase after the footsteps tearing down the street behind him.

The neighbor decides for him, carefully peaking her face out from the door to investigate the commotion. Her expression comes to a quick conclusion, that Cal is a threat and Gillian is hurt.

“Get away from her!” she shouts.

“Cal.” Gillian pants. “Don’t. Go.”

The neighbor comes out with a frying pan, and Cal tears himself away from her. He tries not to think about how Gillian’s last memory of him is that he’s abandoning her in her darkest moment. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, Cal accelerates to a dead sprint.

The murder is almost out of sight, but it seems he doesn’t know where he’s going because he takes a turn down a dead end.

Cal makes the same turn a handful of seconds later. “Stop!”

Unfortunately, the murderer’s panic plays in his favor. He runs right into Cal, shoving him out of the way and knocking him flat as he goes back out onto the road.

Swearing, Cal struggles to his feet and takes up the chase again. The murder gets further and further ahead of him. The truth is that Cal is old, tired, and out of shape. Hand to hand combat is one thing, but hot pursuit is another.

A siren whoops behind him. Cal knows that running futile, but he tries to go faster. Another police car pulls in from an intersecting street and blocks his path. He’s trapped.

“Stop where you are! Put your hands up and get to your knees!” The voice is distorted through the megaphone, but he recognizes the young cop at the boundary around Gillian’s house from the first night.

Cal obeys. There isn’t a point in trying to escape.

The cold metal of a handcuff tightens around his wrist. A rough hand tugs him to standing. “You are being detained as a suspect in the murder of Gillian Foster. Anything you say can or will be held against you in a court of law.”

Cal gets stuffed into the back of a squad car. He’s sweaty and still breathing hard. Gillian’s blood is cooling and drying on his hands. Everything went wrong today.

Cal’s watch ticks from 11:59 to midnight.

Chapter Text

8:15 a.m.

Cal lies panting in bed. His head pulses in time to the blare of his alarm clock. The days are catching up to him. That, and watching Gillian die.

The one thing he is grateful for is that she never seems to remember or bear any ill effects of being shot in the chest three times. He hopes that there isn’t something invisible, sinister developing under the surface, like a hole in her heart that will widen each day until she dies, no murder necessary.

Cal shuffles off to the shower. The back of his head is slightly tender when he shampoos it, but he doesn’t have any concussion symptoms, so at least he healed somewhat over night. But attempting to understand what’s happening and how his body is handling it isn’t his primary concern. What he needs is a plan.

The gentle approach (if drinking counts as a gentle approach) didn’t work, and brute force didn’t work. The main issues seem to be (1) Gillian sustains an injury too serious to be treated (2) the murder either lies in wait or enters through a back entrance and (3) the murder is too quick to be caught.

Maybe he can’t save her and solve the murder.

Not without help.

9:02 a.m.

“Cal!” Gillian, whole and unharmed comes down the hallway. “There you are. I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to make it.”

Why hadn’t he heard the way that fondness undercut her frustration the first several times? Why is it only now that he can see her affection? Perhaps reliving this day for the fourth time is the equivalent of slowing down his mother’s interview, the quirks of their words and mannerisms going from subtle to overt if only he knows where to look and when to listen.

“Cal?” She tugs at his tie. “You with me?”

“Sorry, love, just thinking about the meeting. Chief Willis of the Baltimore PD.” Cal takes her by the waist and guides her to the break room where he will put his plan in to action. He nods along to what she’s saying, not listening and instead watching Loker’s movements. After Anna gives her the box of cupcakes, Loker opens the door. Cal sets himself on a casual collision course, intercepting Loker right as he crashes into the table. The sting of hot coffee burns his chest as it spills on the front of his white button down.

“Shit!” Loker exclaims. “Dr. Lightman—”

“My office. Now.” He barks, satisfied at the way Loker scurries away.

“Try to be nice. It was an accident, you know,” Gillian says, dabbing at his shirt with a napkin.

Cal shrugs apologetically. “I know you wanted me to be there.”

“I’ll stall for a few minutes. Any of your backup shirts will do.” With a final bite of cupcake, she leaves the break room and heads off to the meeting.

Cal overshoots the conference room and goes to his office where Loker is waiting nervously, like a kid getting sent to the principal’s office for the first time.

“I’m so—” Loker starts.

Cal waves off the apology. “It’s fine. I did it on purpose.”

“Um. Okay?” He looks the same amount of scared but with more confusion.

Cal helps himself to his extra wardrobe of spare shirts, the one Gillian made him store there after the infamous one shirt for a month episode. As he changes, he fills Loker in. “I don’t have a lot of time, so I need you to just listen and not interrupt. I’m stuck in a time loop.” It’s the first time he’s admitted it out loud to himself. “I bumped into you because I knew you were going to spill your coffee, and I need your help.”

“You need my help?” Loker eyes him suspiciously.

“No questions.” Cal throws the dirty shirt onto the back of his desk chair and begins buttoning up the fresh one. “Around 11:30 tonight, Foster will be shot and killed in her home. I haven’t been able to figure out how the person is getting in or who it is or how to save her. I need your help. I need you to look through every single case she’s worked since the company started. Highlight anybody who fits that MO: break and entering, murder, specifically in a single gunshot wound execution style. If Foster asks, just say you’re doing research. Recruit Torres if you have to when she gets back from the field.” Cal checks his watch has he throws his suit jacket back on over his shoulders. “You have time for one question.”

Loker sits in a stunned disbelief. “Is this some sort of a test?”

“Would you feel better if it were?” Cal asks rhetorically and heads out the door.

10:30 a.m.

“That went well,” Cal says in spite of himself because he’s really getting tired of sitting through that meeting (even though he got benched yesterday) and his boredom manifested in fidgeting leg under the table. A hand on his knee and a gentle squeeze had gone a long way, though. It’s so much better when she isn’t angry at him acting unhinged.

“It did. Thank you. Really. I know how much you hate this sort of thing.” Her voice is just as indulgent and grateful as he remembers it being the first time.

“Not a problem,” he replies, completely distracted by Torres returning from the field. He needs to catch her up to speed. “Look, I’ve got to run.”

Gillian frowns. “Oh. Okay. Urgent case?”

If only she knew. “You could say that, yeah.”

“Well, you know where to find me if you need me.” Her offer is as friendly as it is let down.

He’ll fix it with her. He will. After he prevents her murder. Right now, though, he needs Torres on the case. “Oi! Torres. My office. Now.”

Her expression is soldier’s dread, unwilling yet obeying. With a nod, she changes course and follows Cal into his office. Loker, much to his relief, hasn’t bailed. His bugged out eyes are less than pleased.

“Help me,” he pleads.

Torres looks like a person who’s just realized they have no idea what is going on. And she doesn’t. “Are you being held hostage?”

Quickly, Cal explains the situation: the time loop, the murder, the case. There’s a pause after he’s done talking.

“He’s gone insane,” Torres says slowly. “Even by his own standards.”

“Think I should tell Foster?” Loker suggests as if Cal isn’t standing there with them and perfectly capable of hearing.

“Tried that yesterday. I almost ended up with a restraining order.” Cal sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, wincing when it passes over the pistol whip lump from last night. “Look, if I’m wrong, then we all wake up tomorrow morning having wasted a day. If I’m right, Foster dies. Again. I’ve tried to save her on my own, and I can’t. I need your help. Please.”

It’s the “please” that seems to convince them. Cal never requests anything, only demands it. It's enough to tip them into taking him seriously, and the three of them get to work.

5:08 p.m.

The three of them are still slogging through case files having caught up to two years ago when the end of the work day comes and goes.

“Hey,” Gillian greets them. She gives them a bemused smile. “Is there a team meeting I didn’t know about?”

Loker and Torres look to Cal who stands up to meet Gillian by the door. “Nah, I just needed some extra eyes and hands for reviewing and filing old cases.”

“Did you want help?” she offers eagerly.

He shakes his head. “No, we have it handled.”

Gillian nods and shrugs, a combination of understanding and rejection. “Okay.”

“Anything else?” he asks when she doesn’t move after a few seconds.

“Would you,” she starts with an uncharacteristically nervous tuck of her hair behind her ear, “have time to go out to dinner with me tonight?”

Of all the scenarios, Cal didn’t expect her to be the one to initiate their date this time around. Unfortunately for the both of them, he has to turn her down. “Sorry, love. Another time.”

“Another time,” Gillian agrees softly, backing away. “Have a good night, then.”

Cal returns to his desk after the door closes, but Loker and Torres have stopped working, giving each other not-at-all subtle glances. He glares at them disapprovingly. “What?”

“Foster just asked you out to dinner,” Torres tries.

“We have been known to have dinner on occasion,” he replies snidely.

“No, like, as a date.” Loker spells out. “Her voice was all breathy and her hips were angled towards yours—”

“—and when you said no,” Torres continues, “she was like a kicked puppy.”

As if Cal hadn’t noticed all that. He wants to date her, she wants to date him, but like most tragic love stories, the timing isn’t right. Not until tomorrow. “Mind your own business, please. I’ll take her out to dinner when this is all over.”

That, at least, is true.

7:42 p.m.

Loker slams the lid of his laptop shut. “Okay, I’ll say it: I’ve played along with your game long enough. This is impossible. There are too many cases and too many suspects, even if we rule out those who are serving their sentences outside of a reasonable travel distance.”

“I only helped for Loker,” Torres adds, chucking her pile of folders full of case files to the floor. “I don’t buy your story at all. Time travel isn’t real.”

The two of them stand up to leave, but Cal runs to block their exit. He glances at his watch. “In one minute, my phone will ring at 7:43. It’s going to be Wallowski.”

They regard him skeptically as he watches the seconds tick by. Right on cue, his phone rings. He fishes it out of his pocket and shows the screen to Loker and Torres. Their doubt turns into discomfort.

“Didn’t you break up with her?” Torres asks cautiously. “I haven’t seen her around in close to a few months, now that I think about it.”

Cal wants to roll his eyes at the accusation that he and Wallowski were ever in a relationship, but in retrospect, he deserves it. “We were never together in that sense, but yeah. We put our tit for tat on hold for the time being.”

“Maybe you planned for her to call?” Loker suggests.

Cal opens his phone to show him their most recent text conversation. It was from last month about an older case, a prisoner transfer. Nothing out of the ordinary to suggest that she might call.

“Fine,” Loker says. “I’ll believe you for a few more hours. But at midnight, I’m calling it quits.”

Torres nods. “Me too.”

“Deal. Tomorrow night, drinks are on me.” Really, though. If this works out, Cal will owe them big time.

11:23 p.m.

Their plan is fool proof until Murphy’s Law kicks in. Until now, it’s been another boring, quiet stakeout. Loker is stationed in the street on his motorcycle, ready to pursue the murderer if he makes an escape. Cal and Torres are lurking on foot around the house, each by possible entry points. Cal is in the alley between her unit and the neighbor’s, resting under the kitchen window where someone could plausibly climb in, and Torres is in the back by a shared garden space and the back door.

“This sucks,” Loker grumbles into their ear pieces.

Torres hushes him. “I think I heard something.”

Cal double checks his surroundings, extra alert. Everything is as it was. The recycling and trash bins stand in line, and the suburban neighborhood slumbers on.

“Hey!” She shouts in a gruff voice. “What are you—”

The gunshot echoes off the walls.

“Ria? Ria!” Loker calls, panicked.

“Don’t move!” Cal orders and abandons his hiding place. He rounds the corner just in time to see that Loker has not heeded his warning and is facing down a murderer.

A second gunshot pierces his motorcycle helmet like it’s nothing. Loker drops to the ground next to Torres who’s bleeding out on the pavement. Cal slinks into the shadows of the house and considers what to do next. The murderer doesn’t give him much time to do so, though, and wrenches open the back door.

Cal launches himself at the assailant as they raise the gun. Three sounds happen at once. Gillian’s high pitched scream and Cal’s oof of impact are both masked by the sound of a third gunshot. He can only hope that he changed the trajectory of the bullet enough not to be a fatal wound.

Cal lands on his side on the steps to the garden, dragging the murderer down with him. Their elbow jams into his rib cage, knocking his breath away. They stand quickly and point the gun directly into his face. Cal puts his hands up as a useless shield and braces for impact.

Click.

Hesitantly, Cal opens his eyes. He’s still looking down the barrel of a revolver (old-school, six-barrel, he notes, in case it will be useful later).

Click.

The gun is jammed. The murderer gives Cal one good kick to the ribs then darts away, back out through the door to the garden where Loker and Torres lie either dying or already dead. Cal sits up, coughing and clutching his ribs. He’s pretty sure at least a few of them are cracked.

“Gil?”

His ears are still ringing, but he hears nothing in return. Dread settles into the pit of his stomach. He staggers to his feet and enters her home.

Gillian is lying flat on her back, blood puddling beside her. He crawls towards her, on hands and knees, too overcome to walk. His plan was a failure. The bullet caught her neck. She didn’t even stand a chance with her jugular cut.

The worst part is that she’s already dead. Her eyes, glassy and vacant, refuse to meet his. Ashen gray cheeks pale in contrast to the dark red pool next to her.

Cal gathers her limp body up in his arms. Her head lolls back unnaturally, so he cradles it with a hand against his shoulder, running his hands over her hair.

“I’m sorry, Gil, I’m so sorry,” he weeps. Not only is Gillian still dead, but so are Loker and Torres. He thought that involving them would fix things, but it only made it worse. Cal’s tried everything he can think of, and nothing has worked. Is this his life now? Doomed to watch his partner, best friend, and love die every day for eternity?

“Christ. I’m gonna be sick.” The voice is the young officer from the crime scene the first night, and it comes from outside. A retching sound follows his statement.

Footsteps plod up the back steps then freeze. “Shit, we’ve got a survivor!”

Hands grab his shoulders. Cal tucks Gillian closer against him. He doesn’t want to look at them. He wants to stay where he is, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and sinking his fingers into the softness of her shirt and flesh beneath it.

“Sir, are you hurt?” This voice is older and more mature, most certainly belonging to Detective Swanson.

Cal shakes his head even though it isn’t true. His ribs ache and his heart is broken. But he isn’t going to die, and that’s what Swanson is really asking.

“Can you tell me what happened, son?”

He shakes his head again. Someone tries to pry Gillian away, but he holds on tighter. Not like they’ll have time to do a proper investigation before the reset anyway. “Don’t take her away from me.”

“He’s in shock,” Swanson says. “Give him some space. We’ll start with the bodies outside and then try again.”

Cal’s watch ticks from 11:59 to midnight.

Chapter Text

8:15 a.m.

Cal does not get up when his alarm clock cries. He lets it shriek through the rest of the song and allows it to continue playing through the advertisement break. The effort required to sit up and turn it off doesn’t feel worth it.

Cal isn’t going into work today. If this had been a normal week, today would be Saturday. But it hasn’t been a normal week. Instead, Gillian keeps dying, and Cal is powerless to stop it. So what’s the point of getting out of bed? Maybe at least this time he won’t have to see it. Or hear it. Or feel it.

Cal lies there listening to the radio until his cell phone rings. With a heart-heavy sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, just enough to silence the alarm and grab his phone. He blinks at the screen with bleary eyes. It’s 9:10, and Gillian is calling him. No doubt Anna has already given her cupcakes, Loker has already spilled on himself, and Chief Willis has already arrived. Cal considers taking it, but by the time he’s finished with the thought, the call has already gone to voicemail.

Oh well. Not like any of this will matter at the end of the day anyway.

11:33 a.m.

Cal is vegging in front of the television. Lying in bed was getting boring and uncomfortable. At least he could have some proper entertainment in front of the television. News anchors provide an endless barrage of micro-expressions to be examined.

Someone knocks at the door.

Cal lowers the volume a few notches. It’s possible this has happened every day; he wouldn’t know otherwise. This is his first day of being home at this particular time. Perhaps it’s just a package delivery or a salesperson.

“Hey,” a familiar voice shouts at the door. “It’s Torres.” She rings the doorbell.

Cal does not respond. He is glad that she is alive and well, though, despite having been murdered last night. Presumably Loker and Gillian are also both recovered. Cal isn’t so lucky. His ribs still have a bruise the size and shape of a boot on them.

“I’m stopping by because I was out in the field with Foster, and she sent me on a detour on my way back to check in on you. She sounds worried and pissed. I guess she’s been calling you and you haven’t answered.”

That is exactly why he left his phone upstairs.

Torres sighs. “Look, I know it’s not my business, but I can hear the television on so I know you’re in there. Just call her and tell her that you’re okay. She— She cares about you. And I think you owe it to her to let her know that you’re alive.”

Cal swallows hard. He knew that his disappearing act wouldn’t be well-received (it never is), but he can’t bring himself to talk to Gillian when he knows that, by the end of the day, she will die. He doesn’t want to interact with her knowing that he is a failure.

“Anyway.” Torres clears her throat. “That’s it. Hope I’ll see you at work.” Her footsteps fade away, and he hears the car drive off down the street.

Cal turns the volume backup.

3:46 p.m.

Cal’s survival instincts are almost exclusively fight or flight, but when he hears the front door unlock, he freezes. He is still on the couch having only got up twice for the bathroom. Using the television to numb out was effective, but here he is, vulnerable to an attack.

“Lightman?” Loker sticks his head in the door. “You in here?”

Cal lets his head loll back on to the couch. It’s nice Loker is alive, but he doesn’t want to talk to him. Maybe playing dead will make him go away.

Loker’s footsteps pad over to the couch. The television shuts off.

“You need Foster.”

Cal cracks an eye open. “Piss off. Tell her I’m fine.”

“Like she would believe that.” Loker makes it clear that he doesn’t believe that either. “She’s been alternating between furious and worried sick all day.”

Funny how both Loker and Torres have used Gillian against him. They haven’t expressed their own concerns for his health as much as they’ve acted as a messenger.

“Tell her I just ditched her, then,” Cal says. “Needed a mental health day.”

“You think that would make her any less concerned?” he asks.

Shit. No. She would immediately jump to what happened to his mother and his worst self-destructive tendencies.

“I’ll call her, okay?” Cal tells him.

Loker shrugs. “That’s a good start, but I’m still going to tell her the truth.”

“Which is?”

“That you look terrible and sad and she should check on you. Because you need her, and she needs the assurance that you’re still here.” He laughs. “You’re sort of pathetic, you know that? Both of you. Co-dependent.”

“Piss off,” Cal repeats. “For real, this time.”

Loker stands up off the couch. Before he opens the door, he pauses and glances over his shoulder. “Call her.”

4:12 p.m.

Cal retrieves his phone from his nightstand. There are no fewer than five calls and three voicemails from Gillian. The soul-crushing guilt that has been eating at his stomach intensifies, but he’s already committed and presses her contact number.

“Cal?” She picks up on the second ring.

A full-body shiver goes through him at her voice. The gunshot wound from last night would have left her without vocal chords. “Hey, love.”

“Where have you been?” Gillian sounds like a mom. Her tone is both demanding and protective at the same time.

“At home.”

Gillian is quiet, no doubt parsing every little part of his words. “Alright. I’ll be over in an hour and a half, okay? I’ll make you dinner.”

6:26 p.m.

Gillian mothers him, and Cal doesn’t complain. She makes him dinner and forces him to change out of his pajamas and offer to give him a shave (which he declines and regrets not taking advantage of that particular proposal). He’s unsettled by how few questions she’s asked so far, but the interrogation comes when she makes him help with the dishes.

“So what happened this morning?” Her tone is the cautious curious therapist.

Cal turns to away from her to dry off the pots and pans. “Couldn’t get out of bed.”

“Because?” Gillian presses.

Because. Because he feels hopeless. Because he feels trapped. Because he keeps seeing her die and it’s left him with immense psychological damage he might never recover from. The answer he goes with is, “I’ve been having this … recurrent nightmare.”

“Can I ask what it’s about?”

“Losing someone I care about in violent, graphic ways,” he admits.

She nods with understanding. “That sounds upsetting. I can understand why—”

“Don’t,” Cal says sharply. She’s too kind, too accepting, too professional. “Don’t do that. I know you’re mad at me.”

“I am. You knew that the meeting this morning was important and that it was important to me that you be there, so I felt betrayed when you didn’t show up. After you didn’t return my calls, I was worried that something happened to you.” Gillian scrubs vigorously at a spot, then stops, her shoulders dropping as the water runs over the dish. “I could go on, but talking about how I feel can wait. That isn’t going to help you right now. I can tell that you’re suffering. While I wish you had told me what’s going on earlier, I’m glad that you took the time that you needed.”

It’s still too gentle. Horrifyingly, he feels tears start to come to his eyes. The wall of apathy he managed to construct earlier is crumbling rapidly, eroded by overwhelming grief for Gillian, this wonderful human being who will be murdered senselessly in her home. This would be so much easier if she were angry at him again and—

“Cal.” Gillian shuts off the water and sidles up behind him, linking her arms around his waist.

He tries so hard to control his stuttering breathing but he can’t, and it’s a dead give away that he’s crying. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Whatever this dream is, I think it might help you to talk about it, but let’s go somewhere more comfortable. Okay?”

Cal doesn’t agree verbally, but he unwraps her arms from him, holds fast to one of her wrists, and leads her to the couch. She props her feet up on the coffee table and puts a pillow on her lap. He takes her silent invitation and lies down, head in her lap, still facing away from her.

He wipes his face dry. “In my dream, you die, and there’s nothing I can do to save you.”

“And it makes you feel … ?” she prompts.

“Powerless.”

She hums and pets his hair in a soothing rhythm. “How many times have you had this dream?”

“Five. Each time is a little different, but the ending is always the same.” Cal waits, but she doesn’t respond. He turns onto his back, dislodging her hand. “Your diagnosis, doctor?”

Gillian looks down at him with compassion in her eyes. “Psychologically speaking, most dreams are random, but this one is repetitive, specific, and disturbing to you. That indicates a very real fear, in this case, a fear of losing me. It sounds like you’re almost experiencing anticipatory grief.”

Scratch the anticipatory part, but yes. Even Cal is willing to admit to himself that he is experiencing grief for all the Gillians who have died. “So how do I break the cycle?”

“The final stage of grief is acceptance. In the case of anticipatory grief, it means learning to be comfortable with the concept of death and loss,” Gillian thumbs over his damp cheekbone. “We don’t get to choose when we or the people that we care about go. All we can do is try to live our lives as best we can.”

Cal shuts his eyes again. Can he learn to be okay with her death? Is that they key to escaping the loop? If his options are to stay in the loop if it means getting to stay with Gillian and break the loop if it means living without her, what would he choose? What if he doesn’t get to choose? What if the loop breaks itself, and he has to learn to live without her?

“What are you thinking?” she asks softly.

“If you knew it was going to be your last day,” he begins, “what would you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Try to live that day to its fullest extent, I suppose.”

He opens his eyes and prompts her with a raised eyebrow.

Gillian flutters her eyelashes. “Assuming my life is as it is now, I guess I would want to solve a difficult and rewarding case, have a good meal, and eat dessert.”

Exactly what they did the first time around, then. Dinner and dessert. Cal can make that happen for her.

9:37 p.m.

They have, somehow, migrated to the bed. Cal is clinging to her thigh like a child, and she’s been patiently reassuring him that she’s there. Except that somehow makes it worse because he knows that she won’t be in a few hours.

Even still, he’s emotionally exhausted and dozing off even though he doesn’t want her to go.

“Tired?” Gillian whispers.

He squeezes her. “Stay?”

“Until you fall asleep,” she agrees. “Before you do, call me if you have the dream again tonight, okay?”

He hates that she is leaving, but what else is there to do? Beg her to stay? Would that even change the outcome? Is this the first step of acceptance, letting her leave and allowing himself to truly be powerless? “Okay.”

He wants to stay awake for her, but he can’t. Cal hasn’t really slept for five days. His body starts the loop mostly reset, but his brain is in desperate need of time to rest.

So Cal sleeps. He sleeps so deeply that he misses the kiss Gillian lays on his cheek and the way she tucks the covers up under his chin and the lingering look she gives him at the door. He doesn’t wake when she calls him in a panicked voice or when she breathes her last breath or when Detective Swanson knocks on his door with his hat in his hands.

He doesn’t dream of anything.

Cal’s watch ticks from 11:59 to midnight.

Chapter Text

8:15 a.m.

For the first time, Cal embraces the alarm clock song. It is a brand new day, he decides. Time to make it a good one.

He showers and shaves (still nicks himself, but small price to pay) in record time. Monday Cal (that’s what he’s been referring to his pre-loop self) had the good sense to have his suit dry-cleaned and pressed, so he makes it out the door more dapper and spiffy than he’s ever been in his life.

Cal checks his watch. Perfect. He has enough time to stop by the florist.

8:58 a.m.

“Cal? You’re almost early.” Gillian tilts her head, glancing from him to the flowers in his hands. “And you have flowers? For whom?”

“For you.” He holds them out to her feeling a little silly, like a boy giving his crush a candy bar to confess his feelings.

“Thank you? These are gorgeous, and they smell lovely.” Gillian pauses mid-sniff and glares suspiciously at him over the petals. “What did you do?”

Cal gasps and puts a hand to his chest in mock-offense. “What did I do? You think these are apology flowers? Don’t be daft, darling, lily of the valley is the flower of apology in the language of flowers.”

“And red tulips mean … ?”

A declaration of love, but he can’t just come out and say that, can he? “That we have a meeting with Chief Kyle Willis of the Baltimore PD, and I read the file.”

“You did?”

Okay, he still hasn’t, but he’s sat through the meeting enough times to know what it’s about. Cal snugs her up by the waist and starts them down the hallway. “Let’s get some water for these, yeah?”

Gillian finds a pair of scissors and cuts the stems on a diagonal (to help them last longer, supposedly), and fills a vase with the water and plant food. Cal has positioned himself strategically by the table to save Loker and his shirt from an unfortunate fate.

“Dr. Foster!” Anna comes in right on cue. “I made some cupcakes. Want one?”

“Thank you! These look delicious.” Gillian takes a bite. “Yummy!”

Yummy. Of course she says yummy. Cal watches her fondly. There’s something so unguarded about her joy that’s enchanting. “As sweet as you?”

“Sweeter,” she replies.

“Not possible. Got frosting on your nose.” He catches Loker out of the corner of his eye just in time to warn him. “Watch the table, mate.”

Loker swerves, and, for the first time, rescues his shirt, file, and coffee. “Thanks! I just came in to tell you that our clients are in the meeting room, and they’re ready when we are.”

“Okay.” Gillian looks longingly at her cupcake. “One more bite.”

10:30 a.m.

“That went well,” Loker says. The meeting went very differently with him there. Cal and Gillian hardly had to do much of anything, allowing their Vice-President to shine instead. He should probably be a bit concerned that Loker is clearly making a play to inherit the place even though Cal has another ten or so years to go before retirement, but he’s actually proud of Loker. He’s come a long way from the starry-eyed college grad, the arrogant employee, and the jilted unpaid intern. Vice-President suits him well.

“It did,” Gillian agrees. “Thank you, Loker. I’m quite impressed by how you handled it.”

Loker beams. “Anything else?”

“We’ve got it from here, thanks.” She waits for him to leave then puts a hand on Cal’s forearm. “Thank you, too. Really. I know how much you hate this sort of thing.”

“I don’t, actually.” After sitting through the same meeting four times, he has truly begun to appreciate the process, not just the end result.

Gillian clutches at her non-existent pearls. “Who are you, and what have you done with my Cal Lightman?”

“Your Cal Lightman?” He didn’t pick her out to be the possessive type, but he could absolutely get behind that. On the other hand, her barely concealed jealously towards Naomi and Wallowski indicates that maybe she is the possessive type? What a wonder that would be.

She kicks him under the table. “You know what I mean.”

“Maybe I’ve just come to appreciate the finer parts of our business.” He pauses, debating his next words. Traditionally, this is when he asks her out to dinner, but he wants it to be perfectly clear that it’s dinner as a date, not dinner as friends. Even though he knows (almost certainly, based on how previous iterations have gone) that she will say yes, he can’t help but to be nervous. Gillian just has that effect on him, apparently. Instead, he gives himself another opportunity. “Lunch?”

“As long as it involves French fries.”

12:35 p.m.

Gillian keeps looking at him expectantly as if she too as been through this day before and knows exactly what he’s working up to. It makes Cal all the more nervous which is ridiculous. Not only has he quite literally done this before, but confidence has never been his problem. Not until Gillian who makes him feel breathless, especially when she glances at him coyly across her desk.

Because he’s spent so long stalling, it’s Gillian who has to get him started. “Thank you for lunch.”

“Not a problem.”

“Any particular reason?” she pries. “I appreciate it, of course, but it’s rare we don’t work through lunch.”

“I wanted to ask you something.” Cal wipes her mouth with a napkin. She raises her eyebrows, a silent invitation for him to go on. He squirms further down into his seat and crumples the napkin in his fist. “Want to have dinner? Tonight? As a date?”

Cal is embarrassed by how stilted and awkward he sounds even though he’s had hours to prepare but to he fair to himself, it was only yesterday that he was wallowing on the couch about the nihilism of this time loop he’s gotten himself trapped in.

Gillian, for her part, doesn’t seem to care that he can’t seem to string a full sentence together. She laughs, not unkindly, and shakes her head in disbelief rather than rejection. “You asked me out to lunch to ask me out to dinner?”

“Yeah, supposed I did do that.” A bit much, now that he thinks about it.

“I accept.”

Cal shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. “Really?”

“Really,” she confirms. “Cal, I—” Her expression goes more serious but still warm and friendly. “I really appreciate the things you’ve done today, but that’s not why I’m saying yes. I’m saying yes because I’ve been watching you change over the past few months. Not change, exactly, but being your best self more often.” Gracefully, she doesn’t call him out on his bullshit from late last year, even though he knows he would deserve it. “I’m ready for this. For us. And I think you are too.”

5:56 p.m.

Cal is ready for this right up until the moment Gillian wraps her arms around him from behind and sets her chin on his on his shoulder. It takes him back to last night when she did the exact same thing right after he started crying about watching her die over and over again like she’s going to die tonight—

She lets go of him when his spine goes rigid. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No. Just wasn’t expecting it.” Cal shuts off the stove and turns to face her. He draws her back in by her hips then tips her head up with a hand on her chin. “Alright if I kiss you?”

Gillian’s eyes go half lidded by way of fluttering. “Yeah.”

Kissing her, he thinks, will never get old. Her lips are soft and parting for him. There’s nothing urgent about it, just comforting, like they do this all the time as a part of their coming home routine. Gillian was right: They’re ready for this. It feels so easy to be with her like this in a domestic dream.

He gives her one final kiss to the cheek. “Let’s eat.”

7:40 p.m.

Cal thanks his foresight for remembering to put his phone on silent because Gillian has seduced him onto the couch and is letting him—no, encouraging him—to touch her (clothes on, but still). She feels marvelous, all alive and warm.

“Why now?” Gillian hushes against the hinge of his jaw.

Cal pulls back just enough to see her curious affection. He brushes a constellation of freckles on her cheeks with the back of his knuckles, savoring the way it makes her sigh.

“Cause I love you,” he confesses.

She hums, half contentment, half contemplation. “That answers why, I suppose, but you’ve loved me for a while.”

The way Gillian says it, without a hint of doubt has him sucking in a breath. She’s known, for who knows how long, and has been waiting on his to find the balls to tell her. It might surprise him, except he knows that she’s much better at reading him than he is at reading her.

“Why now?” she asks again, unrepentant.

“Well.” Cal pauses. He knows why he’s doing it now, but why had he chosen today the very first time, before he knew about her murder and the loop? “It’s your birthday tomorrow, isn’t it?”

“You remember that?”

“Of course I do, love.” He always wonders what to do every year, unsure of how to give a gift that doesn’t blatantly expose his heart. Cal hasn’t exactly intended for the timing to come off as a birthday present. It is more that her birthday is a reminder that their time together is measured (not so much now in the loop, but she doesn’t know that).

Gillian smirks at him. “So this is a birthday present?”

“More of a proper send off to your last day of being 37.”

She snorts. “I’m turning 41, you flatterer.”

“You get better looking every day,” Cal says and doesn’t wait for a response. If this is to be a proper send off, he better snog her senseless.

10:35 p.m.

They spend the rest of the evening tangled up on the couch. At some point, Gillian turns on a college basketball game between two universities he’s never heard of (Emily’s set her sights on schools known more for their academics than their sports). She’s sat up, and he finds himself (once again) with his head in her lap, lulled into a state of almost bliss. Cal catches himself thinking that, no matter how this night ends, he wouldn’t mind doing this again and again. Is this what acceptance feels like? Allowing himself to be loved and to love in return, no matter how brief the time they have may be?

“We should get to bed,” she suggests.

Cal heaves himself upright. Her hand falls from his head to his shoulders which she massages (dare he say it?) lovingly. “Alright.”

“Did you want …” Gillian cuts off her own question, dodging his gaze shyly.

He looks at her quizzically. “Did I want what?”

“You don’t have to stay in the spare room, if you don’t want. You could join me in mine. To sleep.” She bites down on her bottom lip. “I don’t want to rush into things, but I don’t want to stall them unnecessarily either. Only if you’re comfortable, that is.”

“I am comfortable.” Cal squeezes her thigh. “Give me 10 minutes, love, and then I’ll join you.”

10:52 p.m.

Cal lied: He takes nearly 20 minutes. His clothes and toiletries are in the spare room, so he cleans up and changes into something comfortable. That doesn’t take long. What takes a majority of his time is pacing and deciding on his next moves. He will join Gillian in her bed, of course, there’s no doubt about that. The real question is what he does to prepare for the invasion tonight. Does he stash a weapon under the bed? He’s not likely to get away with that without her noticing, the same for spreading broken glass in the back entry to alert him to the murderer’s entry.

Cal knows that the gun will jam after the third shot. His best bet is getting Gillian somewhere safe and waiting out the gun’s malfunction. How he’s going to achieve that, he doesn’t know, but it’s better than bringing a knife to the bedroom and risking Gillian thinking that he’s going to be the one to murder her.

In the end, he goes in empty handed.

“There you are,” she mutters sleepily.

He gestures for her to budge over and joins her in the space she leaves behind. “Here I am.”

Cal curls himself around her protectively, doing his best impression of a weighted blanket. It’s autumn and the days are still warm, but it’s getting cold enough at night to claim a snuggle for warmth.

“You’re awfully cuddly.” Gillian comments when he hooks a leg over her hips, unknowingly echoing is own words from a few nights ago.

“Sorry.” He begins to unwind his arms from around her, but she catches a wrist and holds him fast.

“Not a complaint.” She lifts a captured hand to her mouth and gives his knuckles a kiss. “I love you too, by the way.”

He kisses her shoulder. “Good night, Gil.”

“Good night.”

11:30 p.m.

Cal jolts awake at the sound of a window shattering. Gillian flinches under his arms and tries to sit up, but he pushes her back down.

“Stay here,” he whispers harshly.

“Be careful,” she replies, and grabs for the phone on the nightstand.

Cal slips out the door as a figure glides past the hallway. He freezes, but it’s too late. He’s been spotted. The murder raises the gun and Cal dives to the floor.

The first shot misses, embedding itself somewhere at the end of the hall. A muffled scream comes from the bedroom. The murderer advances down the hallway, and Cal tackles their ankles as they try to pass him.

The second shot splinters the wood of the bedroom door and nearly deafens him. One more. He just has to block one more shot and Gillian lives.

The murder steps over him and opens the bedroom door. Light spills out. Cal can hear Gillian scream again. He scrambles to his feet and throws himself in between Gillian and the murderer.

The third shots pierces his chest.

Cal falls to the floor. It doesn’t hurt, not yet, but he can feel his shirt getting wet.

“No!” Gillian shouts.

The murderer aims at her and the gun clicks, once, twice, and then Cal hears their footsteps fleeing out the front door. He lies on his back, unable to move. There’s a sense of relief. Gillian’s going to make it. He did it. He saved her.

“Cal!” Gillian’s face comes into view as she hovers over him. “Cal. I’m here, okay? Just hold on. I’ve got you.”

He groans in pain when her hands come up to press the comforter against his wound.

“Ambulance is on it’s way. Stay with me,” she begs.

Something wet lands on his chin. A second drop follows the first, this time on his lip. It’s slightly salty. He darts his tongue out and realizes that he’s tasting her tears.

Cal tries to find her eyes. Things are going a little black and blurry around the edges, but he manages to pick out the bright blue just fine. She’s beautiful. Did he tell her that tonight?

“Shh, honey,” she says in response to his mumbling. “Don’t try to talk.”

It’s getting harder to breathe. There’s a pressure in his chest, like something’s sitting on him, and it can’t all be from Gillian pressing down on the bullet hole. Cal can only sip in air a little bit at a time. He focuses as best he can on her face and takes in a shallow breath.

“Love. You,” he pants.

“Love you too. Don’t die on me. Please, please.”

Cal tries not to die, but his pulse starts to falter. There isn’t enough blood in his body to keep his organs going. Of all the times he’s confronted death, this is the most at peace he’s felt about it. He broke the cycle through acceptance. That’s what matters.

Cal closes his eyes.

“No! Cal, don’t you dare. I lost Claire like this and I can’t lose you too.” Gillian presses down harder. “Come back to me. Please.”

His heart stops. Consciousness drains from him quickly after that. The last thing he hears is Gillian sob.

A few minutes later, the paramedics come in. They can’t restart his heart.

Cal’s watch ticks from 11:59 to midnight.

Chapter Text

8:15 a.m.

Gillian gasps and finds herself clutching her desk instead of Cal.

Her desk. When did she get to the office? There’s light coming in from the window. It’s not close to midnight anymore; it’s morning. And her clothes. They’re the same as yesterday. But that doesn’t make sense. She changed when she and Cal—

Cal. Gillian feels hot tears start down her cheeks. He was there, heart beating and lungs breathing under her hands. It’s only been three months since her last nightmare about Claire. Now, she’s lost her best friend, her partner, her almost lover—

And Emily—oh God, Emily—needs to be informed. After she’s told the staff. Maybe that’s why she’s here? That somehow, in her haze of grief, she’d thought to come to the office so she could make an announcement.

She needs to go home. Yet she doesn’t want to go home. That’s where Cal died. There is no doubt a swarm of police officers scrutinizing the bloodstains and bullet holes in her house. She can’t stay here, either, but she isn’t in any state to drive. Where else can she go? Normally, she would go to Cal’s house. Would that hurt or comfort her more?

Her chest seizes when Gillian tries to take a breath. Memory loss is common after traumatic events, she reminds herself. There isn’t a point in trying to account for her missing hours. However she got here, whatever time it is, she needs to take a minute to get herself together.

On wobbly feet (why is she still wearing heels?), Gillian goes to the bathroom, for once grateful that none of their staff has shown any interest in coming in early. She rests her back against the cool metal door and sinks into a low squat, mindless of the way her knees protest. The chill grounds her to something physical as her thoughts slip away from her and return to last night.

Gillian is no stranger to big emotions (rage, terror, pain) both as a clinician and as a person herself, so she knows that all she can do is let them run their course. She sobs loudly into the echoing bathroom. Her arms wrap around her knees on their own accord as if trying to comfort her subconsciously.

When her tears slow down, Gillian stands unsteadily. She lets the water run until it’s warm then splashes her face. Cursing herself for not having the foresight to bring her purse with her, she does her best to clean up with a paper towel.

It doesn’t do much. Gillian looks an absolute mess. Her nose is red, her cheeks blotchy, rims of her eyes stained with mascara that is almost but not enough water-proof.

Still, she has to face the music at some point. Or someone will walk in. But she’s rather it happen on her own terms. It’s probably almost 9, and it would be wise to gather everyone for a staff meeting.

Gillian takes one last steadying breath and steps back out into the hallway where she promptly trips over her own feet.

“Cal?” she breathes, voice hoarse. “You’re alive? But, how?”

He frowns at her and rubs at his chest. “You remember last night?”

“Of course I do. You were at my place and it was lovely and then.” Gillian swallows a sob. “And then someone came into the house and shot you.”

Cal shepherds her like a wounded animal towards the break room. “I’ll explain everything, alright? But we have to get through the meeting with Captain Willis.”

“Captain Willis?” she echoes.

“Baltimore PD.”

“But that—” she starts.

“I know. I can’t explain it, but today is yesterday. Again.” Cal steers them into the break room despite how much Gillian has slowed them down. He holds the door open for the both of them and swears under his breath. “Loker’s probably already spilled on himself.”

The stain on Loker’s shirt confirms it. That hadn’t happened yesterday. Gillian is sure of it. How had Cal known that Loker was going to spill on himself?

Loker notices their entrance and approaches them, flustered. “There you two are. Willis is here but I spilled my coffee on my shirt so—”

“We’ll handle it.” Cal glances at Gillian, and she has nothing to say, still in too much shock over thinking that he was dead. He squeezes her arm. “I’ll handle it. Wait in my office for me?”

“I can do that.”

10:35 a.m.

Gillian can’t work up an appetite to much on one of the cupcakes that Anna gave her, so she passes the time by thinking through what she knows and comes up with a list of 3 things:

1. Cal died last night.

2. Cal is not dead today.

3. Cal remembers yesterday.

Admittedly, this isn’t much to go on. Furthermore, none of it makes sense. Gillian is a rational person. People don’t die and come back fine the next day. Days don’t repeat themselves. So what’s really going on here?

“Hey.” Cal takes a seat next to her.

Gillian lets out a soft breath. A part of her thought it was possible Cal wasn’t coming back, that she had just hallucinated his return. Whatever happened, at least he’s here now. She gives him a small smile. “Hi.”

“You okay?” He puts and arm over her shoulders.

“I’m …” Gillian sighs heavily, shaking her head. “Fine, I suppose.”

“What do you remember about yesterday?”

“I got up around 6 like normal,” she starts slowly, trying to recall the details. “I came in early to work on the books before our meeting. You arrived with flowers. We had our meeting with the Baltimore P.D., and Loker did most of the talking. We had sandwiches and you asked me out on a date. I worked with Torres on a case the rest of the day, and then I went to home. You cooked me dinner. We made out on the couch for a bit, we talked about us, and we went to bed.” Gillian blinks against tears and memories. “And then someone broke in. With a gun. And you— you got shot—”

His lips meet her temple. “I’m here.”

Gillian wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. This isn’t like Claire, she tells herself. Cal is alive. Cal is here. Cal is in love with her.

“I love you,” she whispers.

Cal hugs her tightly. “Love you too, darling. Whatever happens.”

They take a quick breather. Gillian goes to the desk to blow her nose, and Cal gets them both water. They rejoin at the desk in separate chairs.

“Yesterday is the only Tuesday you remember?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“Yes.” Gillian shifts herself back into solving the case mode. “How many do you remember?”

“This isn’t my first rodeo,” he answers with a shrug.

“How many times, Cal?” she presses.

He runs a tongue over his teeth and looks away. “This is my seventh go around.”

Seven times. A full week of this. Gillian hasn’t even made it through a day, and she’s overwhelmed. She takes another sip of water to mull it over.

“What usually happens?” There must be clues embedded in the day that they can use to solve this mystery and break the loop. At least, she hopes that there are.

“It changes a bit every time. I always wake up to the same song on the radio. I show up at the office with varied degrees of promptness. Anna gives you cupcakes, Loker spills on himself, Willis and his deputy show up.” He shrugs. “I spend the rest of my day haranguing Loker about his research will writing the next chapter of my book—losing all the stuff I’ve written each day is very annoying, by the way. I’ve tried using him and Torres to research our past cases for leads to no success. Later on in the evening, Shazzer rings me—”

“What does Wallowski say?” Gillian tries not to demand, but it comes out that way anyway.

“Dunno, I’ve never picked up.”

Gillian doesn’t know what to do with that. Wallowski has called Cal seven times, and he’s never picked up. Selfishly, she wants to believe that it’s because he is now fully committed to her, but to be honest, she hasn’t seen nor heard from Wallowski for months. The last time she helped with a case was for Claire, and that was close to nine months ago now and she’d clearly been on a date then. Cal hasn’t mentioned her since. Whatever the reason she called and Cal didn’t pick up, it’s not important right now.

Gillian brushes her ugly possessive thoughts towards Wallowski aside. “Alright. And then?”

“Sometimes we have dinner, sometimes we don’t.” He trails off. “After that …”

She nods understandingly. “You die every time?”

“Actually, last night is the first time I’ve died. Hurt like a bitch.” Cal presses on his chest with a wince. “You’re usually the one who dies.”

“What?” Gillian doesn’t feel like someone who’s died six times, but Cal looks like a person who has lived through it.

“Yeah,” he says miserably and sinks lower into his seat. “It’s been awful.”

She reaches across the space between them and puts a comforting hand on his thigh. “Cal—”

A sharp knock at the door draws their attention away. It’s Torres. “Dr. Foster. I couldn’t find you in your office.” She pauses to scan the two of them. “Are you still good to come interview our suspects with me?”

“Yes, of course.” Gillian stands and straightens out her skirt. She glances down towards Cal who has a somber expression on. “Talk later?”

“Talk later,” he agrees.

12:18 p.m.

They’ve just finished interviewing a witness about a jewelry theft. It’s frustrating to go through the same fact-finding mission again and not find anything new on the second time around.

“Everything okay?” Torres asks as they leave the jeweler building.

Gillian is caught unaware by the question but gives her a reassuring smile anyway. “What makes you ask?”

“Well, Loker told me that you didn’t go to the meeting this morning. Lightman went instead, and that’s at least a little suspicious.”

“We’ve discussed having more equal roles in the company. He took on an administrative role so I could work on a case,” she says. The best lies are based in truth.

Torres isn’t buying it. “You were working on a case in his office?”

“It was a cold case that got a new lead,” Gillian lies.

Torres goes quiet until they’ve gotten into the car. “Look, if the company is going under—”

“No, nothing like that,” Gillian assures her. “Cal and I are just …”

The idea dawns on her when Gillian starts the engine to drive them back to the office.

“You and Lightman are just what?” Torres prompts.

“We’re just taking a little emergency work trip this afternoon.”

1:33 p.m.

“Sandwich?” Gillian asks as she tosses it to Cal.

He catches it and lifts an eyebrow at her. “So what’s got you lit up like a Christmas tree?”

She grins. “I’ve been thinking: Dying is what triggers the reset, right? So let’s try not dying.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

“We know the time and place. All we have to do is avoid both of those things. If we aren’t are my house when the murderer shows up, then they can’t kill us. That should be enough to break the loop,” Gillian concludes excitedly.

“When and where to, then?”

“We could just go to your house, but to be safe, I bought us some train tickets.” She slides the printed Amtrak tickets across the table to him.

Cal inspects them dubiously. “Train tickets?”

“We’re headed to New York City. If we start walking now, we can make the 2 o’clock train.”

2:39 p.m.

Somewhere between D.C. and Philadelphia, Gillian notices how unnaturally still Cal is being. He is unusually quiet and pensive, verging on brooding. One a train packed with other passengers ripe for reading, there must be something on his mind keeping him distracted.

She nudges his ankle with her foot. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“I miss Emily,” he says. Gillian knows that she’s visiting Zoë in Chicago for fall break and not coming home to D.C. until Thanksgiving for her first semester of college.

“Call her,” Gillian suggests. “I don’t mind.”

“Alright. I will. You’re allowed to eavesdrop.” Cal dials her number, and Gillian lies her head on Cal’s shoulder so that she’s close enough to the phone to overhear.

Emily’s voice sounds chipper when she answers. “Hi Dad! What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just miss you.”

“Dad, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you need more friends than just me.”

Gillian stifles a laugh, earning her an elbow jabbing into her ribcage.

“I do have more friends! I have Foster to keep me company,” he retorts.

Emily pauses and then sighs. “Are you ever planning on telling her that you love her?”

“Maybe I already have.”

“You haven’t.”

“We’re on a train to New York for a couple’s get-away as we speak.”

Gillian supposes that that’s one way to explain what they’re doing. Survival by way of spur of the moment train travel is romantic in its own way.

“I don’t believe you,” Emily says, but there is doubt in her voice.

“Call her and ask for yourself, if you like,” Cal taunts her, “or I could just pass the phone over.”

“That’s kind of a big romantic gesture. Are you feeling okay?”

“Tip top, Doctor Emily.”

“No really,” she insists. “Did something happen?”

“Guess I got the push I needed.” That statement rings true in his tone of voice.

“Is that so? Well, I’ll need the full story when I’m home for Thanksgiving. Mom wants me to do the shopping for her before she gets home from work, so I gotta go.”

Cal’s shoulder slumps under Gillian’s head. “Alright, darling. I love you.”

“Love you too, Dad. And I’m glad things are working out between you and Gillian. She deserves it.”

Cal hangs up and turns the cell phone over in his hands a few times. “What if I never get to see her again because we’re stuck in the loop?”

“We’ll just have to take a trip to Chicago next time.” Gillian knows that it isn’t enough to lift his melancholy because not being able to see Emily again isn’t his real fear. They are, in theory, fully capable of visiting her within the loop if they had to. If Gillian had to guess, what Cal is truly afraid of is not being able to see Emily grow up.

He gives her a smile that’s full of effort and doesn’t reach his eyes. Gillian feels the way that he’s pulling away from her emotionally, and she expects a classic Lightman defensive wall to go up, but to her surprise, Cal reverses their positions and slouches down in his seat to use her shoulder as a pillow.

“Think I’m going to try to kip down until we get there. Might be another late night.”

“Okay.” She kisses the crown of his head. “I’ll wake you when we get there.”

4:56 p.m.

Gillian’s heart thumps excitedly as the city’s sky scrapers loom into view. Despite living her entire adult life in D.C. and, as a result, only a few hours by train or car away from New York City, she’s only been once. Alec took her for a weekend. It rained the whole time, and he complained about the smell and the noise. Needless to say, she’s eager to make new memories here.

“Cal,” she whispers. “Wake up. We’re almost there.”

He groans and sits up. By the time the train pulls into Penn Station, he’s at least half awake and blinking sleep from his eyes. Judging by snarky commentary, he’s completely awake by the time they battle the crowds in Times Square.

“A local wouldn’t be caught dead here,” Cal complains. “Worse than bloody Trafalgar and Buckingham combined.”

“We’re in New York City, Cal. Times Square a requirement. What do you suggest that we do?”

He’s quiet for a moment, apparently giving some real thought to the question, and then asks, “Central Park?”

It’s only a mile, but they take their time. Well, Gillian takes her time and refuses to be hurried by Cal and various New Yorkers rushing around her. She hasn’t lived there since she was a kid, but the laid-back, take time to smell the roses attitude she grew up with in Santa Monica (back went it had been a more affordable place to live) is something she’s taken with her in every city she’s visited or lived in.

Central Park is, in a word, lovely. They stroll over the bridges and through brightly colored fallen leaves that crunch under their shoes. The setting sun provides a soft romantic glow that plenty of other couples (she is, of course, including herself and Cal as one of those couples) seem to be taking advantage of. Eventually, they take a break on a bench for Gillian’s toes, tired from a full day of walking in heels meant to be worn to the office.

“What now?” Gillian asks. “The museums are closed at this point. We could find a place to stay for the night, but I’d like to see more of New York than the inside of a hotel room.”

Cal stands up and offers his hand to her. “Course I’m not going to make you sit in a hotel room for our first trip and romantic get-away as a couple. What do you say to dinner and a show?”

7:41 p.m.

Gillian says yes to a dinner and a show, obviously. Cal seems to be doing his best to sweep her off her feet, and it’s working. They eat dinner at packed ramen bar. She eats dinner with her elbow bumping against another patron’s the entire time, but she also has her thigh pressed against Cal’s, so it isn’t all a loss, and the food is delicious. Somehow, she’s not entirely certain how, Cal scores them last minute tickets to a relatively new Broadway show. It’s a musical adaptation of Spider-Man which isn’t what Gillian would normally go for, but, hey, it’s a show on Broadway, she isn’t going to complain.

They’re standing outside of the theater, about to go in, when Cal pulls out his cell phone and frowns at it.

“Wallowski,” he explains. “Today’s been so different from the others that I forgot it was coming.”

He goes to decline the call, but Gillian stops him. “Answer it. She might be calling to warn you about what’s going to happen.”

“Heya, Shazzer. What’s up?”

Gillian studies Cal intently as he talks to Wallowski.

“No, sorry, I can’t,” he says apologetically. After a beat, his eyebrows go up in surprise. “Oh really? Well, congrats.” He nods at something Wallowski says. “Yeah, yeah. Another time. Call you later.” He hangs up, pockets the phone, and shrugs at Gillian. “She just wanted to get drinks to tell me she’s moving to Detroit to be closer to family next month.”

“Oh.” Gillian sighs, more put out than she thought she would be. No lead, then. Back to square one. Or zero, in her case. Wallowski’s phone call is just as (ir)relevant to the case as Loker spilling coffee on himself.

“Yeah.”

Even if they break the loop tonight by not dying, there’s still someone out there that wants the two of them dead, and not a clue where to start. Maybe surviving today is just postponing everything until tomorrow.

Gillian shakes the thought out of her head. Thinking negatively won’t help, she chides herself. Instead of dwelling on it, she focuses on Cal. “Sorry, I know she was a friend to you.”

“It’s alright. Haven’t spoken to her in a while. And a fresh start is probably a good thing for her.” Cal puts a hand on her back, gently pushing her towards the entrance to the theater. “Come on, let’s find our seats.”

10:48 p.m.

Gillian enjoys the show more than she thought she would. One song in particular being her to near tears. “And if there’s no tomorrow/I’ll have today again” is the verse that seems so apt for their situation. She would, Gillian decides. If things go south again, she would be content to redo today as they’ve done it.

“We should to find a place to stay,” Cal says when they step out on to the busy sidewalk.

“Right. Hotel.” Gillian mentally files the song lyrics away for later. “Let’s head back towards the station. There must be something between here and there with a vacancy.”

It isn’t difficult to play the role of a weary traveler. The first two hotels turn them away on sight, but the third is at least willing to hear them out.

“Our flight was delayed due to electronic difficulties, so we missed our connection. The next flight isn’t until tomorrow morning,” Gillian lies. “Do you have any last minute rooms available?”

The concierge clicks something on the computer and scans a few lines. “Depends. Are you alright sharing a bed?”

She shares a look with Cal who nods. “Yes, we are.”

“Then you’re in luck. I have a standard queen room. 26th floor.” The concierge finishes checking them in. Gillian tries not to flinch at Cal putting the expense on a company credit card, but at least this time it’s for a good cause.

The room is ideal as a bunker. No one will be breaking in through the window on the 26th floor, and there aren’t any doors to adjoining rooms. The only entrance they have to worry about is the front door which they double lock and barricade with the desk. The desk will be a pain to move tomorrow, but it’s worth it for the extra security. They briefly debate putting something in front of the window, but Cal says that the murderer uses a shot gun. It’s unlikely that they will upgrade to a long-range sniper-style weapon and be able to logistically assassinate them from the skyscraper across the street. It’s as fool-proof as they’re going to get tonight.

They take turns to shower and change into the thin bathrobes that the hotel provides. It isn’t ideal, but it’s better than changing back in to work clothes, and neither of them discuss sleeping commando.

“Next time we do this, I’m bringing a proper set of pajamas,” Cal says.

Gillian rubs at her heel where a blister as bubbled up. “I’m bringing a better walking shoes.”

All things considered, though, there isn’t a whole lot to complain about. She had—dare she say it—a fun day today. Yes, her bank account will be hurting tomorrow, but there isn’t much she would change (besides the context, of course). Traveling was good for them to break up the routine. It felt like playing hooky for the day. Dinner and a show with her—Boyfriend? Too juvenile. Significant other? Too clinical. Partner? Accurate in every sense of the word.—was a perfect day.

Gillian reclines on the bed and lies on her side. Cal joins her, watching her intently as she waits for him to say something. In the end, she is the one who has to break the silence.

“You’re staring,” she comments in a neutral tone.

Cal reaches across the bed to brush her cheek. “You’re beautiful.”

She catches his hand and kisses his palm before letting it go. “A flattering deflection. What are you really thinking about?”

“I don’t understand why you remember this time and not any of the others. What made last time different?” He asks the question to the ceiling when he rolls to his back. “It it isn’t the act of dying. You’ve died every time except for the last one and only remember now. I got Loker and Torres killed one time, and they don’t remember.”

Gillian shifts onto her stomach and props herself up on her elbows. “I can’t tell you why this is happening—I think we would need a space-time continuum expert for that—but I can say that the books I’ve read with time loops are often about grief. Maybe this loop started because you couldn’t handle the idea of a world without me. And maybe watching you die triggered it for me.” Biting the inside of her cheek, she looks down towards Cal. She tilts her head, aiming for soft and open. “I’m sure this hasn’t been easy for you. I mean, Cal, you’ve lost me six times in a row in a sudden and tragic way. Repeated exposure to violence towards a loved one can be very traumatic.”

Gillian pauses, flicking her eyes over his face to make sure that he’s still with her, then continues in a lower volume. “I wasn’t fine after Claire died. You know that.” Cal knows it better than anyone else. He was there for her as he had been after Sophie and after her divorce, a rock, a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear. “What happened last night was uncomfortably close to that. I don’t know how the other nights have gone, but I do know you. I know that you probably tried to save me every night. I know that you probably watched me die more than once. So how are you really?”

Cal shuts his eyes and swallows hard. Pain and sorrow leave deep lines on his forehead. Gillian suspects that the events of his past week are simply too much to confront right now, so she pivots to comfort. She cups his jaw in her hand, thumb rubbing against his cheek. Dipping her head, Gillian kisses his throat and makes a trail up to his mouth. Cal’s fingers thread into her hair and keep her close. His mouth is hot and needy, surging up towards her until he’s flipped them over, pinning Gillian down with his body. Making out to distract from grief and trauma hadn’t been her plan, but she’s more than happy to go along with it.

Eventually, Cal pulls away and settles back down beside her. His lips are a delicious shade of pink when he says, “I’m alright now, but ask me again on Wednesday.”

“I will,” she promises.

“Speaking of—” He flicks his wrist to see the face of his watch. “—it’s 11:59.”

Gillian turns her head to look at the watch count the seconds. She doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink, doesn’t budge.

Cal’s watch ticks from 11:59 to midnight.

Chapter Text

8:15 a.m.

Gillian takes a few seconds to process what’s happened. It’s very jarring to go from lying in bed with Cal in New York to sitting upright in yesterday’s clothes at the office. Her preliminary assessment is that, despite their success in avoiding death, the timeline has reset. She feels well-rested despite not having slept at all last night, and a circle of her ankle confirms that her feet aren’t nearly as sore and blistered as they should be after yesterday.

Out of curiosity, Gillian checks her personal bank account and the company’s. Both are at their pre-New York balance. If they’re stuck in the loop for ever, at least they’ll get essentially free travel perks. Perhaps if today’s attempt doesn’t work, they should experiment with timezones to see if that changes the reset time.

So where does that leave Gillian? Exactly where she was yesterday, unfortunately. Not worse for the wear, but no closer to breaking the loop either. The calls the only person she can talk to about it.

Cal answers on the first ring. “Hey, love.”

“Good morning.” Gillian pauses, taking one last look at her screensaver in the hopes that she read it wrong, but it still stubbornly shows the date as Tuesday. “I take it you’ve come to the same conclusion I have.”

“Unfortunately.”

They sit in a heavy silence for a beat.

“If not dying isn’t enough to break the loop, maybe… we have to solve the mystery,” she says reluctantly.

Cal chuckles humorlessly. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“We’ll figure something out. Just come to the office, and then we can come up with a plan.” Gillian sighs softly. “For what it’s worth, I had a great day yesterday.”

“Me too.”

The smile she hears in his voice makes her smile too, giving her the strength she needs to get through today. Again.

9:03 a.m.

Cal arrives shortly after 9, and Gillian meets him in the hallway. Something passes between them, a sense of both dread and determination. Game time.

Cal offers his arm to her by way of greeting. “Shall we prevent Loker from spilling on himself?”

“Sounds good to me.” She links elbows with him, and they go to the break room.

“Dr. Foster!” Anna joins them. “I made some cupcakes. Want one?”

“Of course, thank you.” Gillian accepts the Tupperware. Instead of eating one straight away as she had, she sets it down on the table. She catches Anna frowning out of the corner of her eye. “I’m sure they’re delicious, Anna, and I’ll have one as soon as I’m done with my coffee.”

All of which she’s timed perfectly for Loker’s entrance. She inserts herself in between Loker and the table and says, “Careful!”

Loker swerves. Shirt and coffee and file saved. “Thanks. Captain Willis is here, but you both look …” He squints at Gillian and Cal. “Weary. Why the long faces? Did someone die?”

“No,” they chorus together.

He doesn’t seem convinced. “Did you need me to take this meeting? Because I can do it.”

“That would be great, Loker,” she replies, an idea forming in her head. “We have a time-sensitive case that just came up.”

“Yeah. No problem. Let me know if you need help with that.” Loker leaves to take the meeting, and Anna heads back to the front desk, leaving the two of them alone.

Cal turns to Gillian. “What’s our time-sensitive case?”

“My murder,” she answers.

He flinches at the mention of it. “That one. Right.”

“There have to be clues somewhere. We’ll get Loker and Torres in on it.”

“Already tried that,” Cal says, deflating.

Gillian won’t let him succumb to helplessness. “But with four of us and more times through the loop, something might jump out at us this time. We can’t give up, Cal. We can solve this. I know that we can.”

9:07 a.m.

“So.” Gillian takes the cap off the dry erase marker and hovers over the whiteboard she wheeled into her office. “What do we know?”

“You die,” Cal says grumpily.

She tries not to roll her eyes. Apparently, he’s still upset about not being in New York which is fair but not helpful. Instead of listening to him, she draws two columns on the board. One she labels “crime” and the other she labels “suspect.” Under the crime section, she writes the word “murder.”

“Okay. Good start,” she praises to encourage him. “What else?”

Cal looks at her with his are you seriously making me do this expression. When she doesn’t give in, he continues. “The murder weapon is an old-timey gun. It stalls after three shots, but there’s enough for six bullets. Typically, you get shot more than once.”

Gillian documents those pieces of information. “Got it. How is our murderer’s aim?”

“Decent, I think. The shots are relatively accurate and aimed at lethal targets, but you’re typically shot more than once at close range.”

“Okay.” She pauses. All this information is useful, but there’s more to this than just the murder alone. “Let’s back up. From what I remember, the murderer comes in through back door.”

Cal agrees. “Yeah. Some knowledge of the neighborhood, and doesn’t appear to be a robbery gone wrong.”

“Let’s turn this into a profile.” Gillian moves to the other column. “This feels premeditated to me, someone who knows where I live, knows my routine enough to know that I would be home, and has a plan. Wearing a ski mask says that they’re worried about being caught or recognized.”

“The overkill says anger,” Cal adds.

Gillian writes “possible motives” on the boards. “Revenge, maybe? That fits into the blend of passionate overkill and premeditated entry.”

“Murderer is relatively young and fit. I got knocked down more than once. Male, judging by height, weight, and body shape. And I’m no marathoner, but this person is fast, too. Likely on the younger side, forty max but that’s pushing it.”

“Anything else?” she asks.

“No.” Cal’s voice sounds off, the slightest quiver, but she doesn’t have time to analyze it because he changes the subject. “What are you going to tell Loker and Torres?”

She winks. “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

10:37 a.m.

“Thank you both for setting aside time in your schedules for this. As you know, it is a time-sensitive case.” Gillian takes a breath to manufacture the correct muscle contractions to sell the lie she’s about to tell. “This morning, I received what I considered to be a credible death threat. This person claims to have a gun and plans to shoot me in my home tonight. The word choice suggests male, likely twenties or thirties. Today, I would appreciate your help reviewing old cases. I know a lot of people hold grudges against this company, against me, so I don’t expect this to be easy. Focus on violent crimes that I was involved in solving, particularly ones where I personally interrogated the perpetrator. Any questions?”

Loker raises his hand. “Can we examine the threat?”

“No,” Cal says sharply.

“It contains some very sensitive information.” Gillian is, in a way, proud of how suspicious her employees are, except it is deeply inconvenient in this specific instance. “And to answer your implied question, this threat came in the form of a message that was sent directly to me, sent to my home mailbox without a return address.”

“Even still, we might get something out of reading the message,” Torres reasons.

“Not possible. It’s—” Gillian’s gaze flicks to the right. Fortunately, Cal is standing there, so she can play it off as a bid for reassurance rather than a tell. “—with the authorities. For fingerprinting. And trace DNA testing.”

“And you didn’t make a copy or commit it to memory?”

“Oi,” Cal snaps at them and takes a side step towards Gillian, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Foster was scared. She’s good at putting on a brave face, but you lot can see that, right? Between her eyebrows, here. In her jaw, there. Now’s not the time to be questioning her when her life is on the line. Can we stop wasting time and get to work?”

Loker and Torres share a dubious look. The narrowing of his eyes says, I don’t believe them, do you? The shrug she gives back translates to not in the slightest, but we’re getting paid anyway.

“Okay. Where do we start?”

1:12 p.m.

They’ve been at it for a few hours now, and the boys are getting snippy with each other. Gillian’s been able to roll her eyes about it and get on with work, but there’s voices are getting louder with each exchange.

“This is useless!” Loker whines.

“Your complaining is useless,” Cal fires right back.

“You know, this would be so much easier if we had a digitized case filing system.” Loker spreads his fingers wide and pans them across the blank space in front of himself as if revealing a work of art. “Imagine, all we’ve have to do is filer for ‘homicide,’ ‘Foster,’ and ‘grudge-potential.’ Maybe now you’ll listen to my suggestions about an electronic our case management system!”

Cal walks over to Loker and gets right up into his face. “Are you volunteering? Because that sounds like a fantastic project for our Vice President.”

“Boys!” Gillian calls. “Can we please focus?”

Loker throws his head back dramatically. “What if it isn’t even in these files? What if the person who sent the threat is someone from before the Group?”

“That’s a long time to hold a grudge.” She considered the possibility earlier, but ultimately tossed it out based on the approximate age of the murderer. That would put the assailant’s age at time of interaction in their teens or twenties, and she worked primarily with seasoned undercover agents. It’s slimly possible that it was someone even before that, from her time in private practice, prisons, or grad school, but even less likely. What does haunt her is if the murderer isn’t someone that they know personally but a friend or family member of someone on the wrong side of their solved cases. It would be virtually impossible to track all of them down with any amount of time.

“You know,” Loker says, bringing her back to the present, “I would think that too except I was almost, if you recall, blown up in front of the office because of a guy after Lightman—”

Gillian holds her hands up. “Alright, alright. Point taken. I will reach out.”

4:31 p.m.

Gillian splashes water on her face and shuts off the tap. She thought that this would be easier. They have, after all, solved plenty of murders before. With a paper towel, she dabs off her face and chucks it in the bin before looking at her reflection.

Someone is standing behind her.

Gillian gasps, spinning on her heels and clutching at her chest. “Torres! You startled me.”

“What’s really going on?” Her tone is cold, unamused, and her arms are crossed.

Gillian tilts her head and offers a small smile. “What do you mean?”

“Loker and I both know that the ‘threat’ is bullshit. Is this one of Lightman’s tests?”

The smile falls off of Gillian’s face. She hardly ever needs to use her scary boss lady expression, but this calls for it. Her chin tips up a few degrees as she takes a step forward, forcing Torres to move back. Gillian holds her gaze with piercing intent until Torres breaks eye contact.

“I understand that you have doubts, but I can assure that this is no test. This is, quite literally, a matter of life and death to me. Now tell me.” Gillian leans in so close that she can feel the other woman’s breath on her cheek. “Am I bullshitting you?”

Torres shakes her head. “No.”

“Good.” Gillian backs away and her pleasant smile returns. “Thank you for your concern and discretion on this matter.”

7:43 p.m.

She doesn’t even notice how much time has passed until Wallowski’s phone call comes through. They sent Loker and Torres home over an hour ago. Loker was right: This is useless.

It’s not that they’ve found nothing. The problem is the opposite: They’ve found too many leads, too many suspects, and they have too little time. The nature of their job, uncovering hidden truths and revealing secrets, means that there is no shortage of people who might have it out for her.

“Any word from DoD?” Cal prompts.

Gillian shakes her heavy head. “They said they would get back to me next week.” She sighs tiredly. “I don’t know what to do, Cal.”

He doesn’t respond. After a moment, she looks to him for some sort of comfort. She doesn’t find any reassurance, but she catches a quick glimpse of … something.

“What was that?”

“The first night, the very first time. You called me.” Cal’s voice sounds hollow with guilt.

“And?”

“You said ‘it’s him,’ as if—”

“As if I knew.” Gillian stands, pacing back and forth twice before stopping in front of him. “Cal, this is huge.”

“But if you confront him—”

“But if I confront him and die, we just restart the day. Listen, the day is going to restart anyway. At least we’ll have a lead or maybe even a solve!” She’s starting to feel the hope that left her hours ago between endless piles of case files.

He confronts her with wide, terrified eyes. “Gil, I can’t let you do that.”

“I don’t want to die either, but this is our chance.” She takes a seat next to him and takes his hand in hers. “You don’t have to be there. I won’t call, either. Just go home and take care of yourself. Talk to Emily. Try not to think about it. I’ll see you here tomorrow, okay?”

11: 18 p.m.

Cal insisted on coming over despite her instructions to the contrary and made her dinner which was nice except for the way he kept hovering, as if she would vanish the moment he turned his back. Gillian tried reassurance for the first hour or so, but gave up words for his preferred form of comfort: touch. That’s how they’ve ended up where they are now: horizontal on the couch, half-asleep, and the full lengths of their bodies pressed together.

“You scared at all?” Cal asks into the hushed living room.

“A little,” she admits. If someone on Monday asked Gillian if she were afraid to die, she probably would have said no. That is because, until Monday, she assumed that she would die of old age, pneumonia or something along those lines. The best she can hope for tonight is that it will be relatively quick and painless, that her murderer’s aim is accurate. Knowing that her death will be violent changes the equation of fear, but so does knowing that her death will be, in a manner of speaking, short lived. Perhaps that is what makes the idea of reincarnation so comforting.

Gillian sits up and drops her head into her hands. She hadn’t been that scared before, but now she is. It isn’t fear exactly, but something adjacent: Dread. Dread implies the inevitable, a fate which cannot be escaped. But Cal is here, so Gillian needs to put on a brave face.

“Come on.” She stands and offers a hand to pull him up. “I wouldn’t want you to get caught in the crossfire.”

Cal lets her help him up and laces their fingers together. “Promise I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“So long as you promise that you won’t stick around to be a witness.”

He brings their hands up to his lips and kisses the back of hers. “I promise.”

“It’s a deal, then.” Gillian walks him to the door and wonders what their blossoming romantic relationship would have been like if they’d gotten together without the time loop. Would they have taken things slowly and taken each step carefully? Would they have immediately fallen into bed and moved in together within a week? As things stand, the progress of their relationship is suspended, unable to move forward without the promise of a future but, at the same time, propelled into the deep end because there is only today, over and over again.

Cal gives her the most tender goodbye kiss. “I love you, Gillian.”

“I love you too.”

11:27 p.m.

Gillian counts, pacing her inhales and exhales. Cal walked her through what’s about to happen: Someone will break in through her back door, search the house, and then shoot her. The gun will stall after three shots, so she could survive (in theory).

Not that surviving is the point tonight.

The point is to figure out who her assassin is, and to do that, she needs time. A few minutes ago, she dumped all of the ice cubes in her refrigerator in the hallway from the back door. She turned on the lamp in the bedroom and left the door cracked.

Gillian also armed herself with her heaviest cast-iron skillet. The knife, while a more effective weapon, made her squeamish. She’s a murderee, not a murderer. So there she lurks, in the darkest corner of her pantry, waiting for—

Crash. The glass of the backdoor half window shatters. A heavy thud signals that the back door has been opened. A few moments later, she hears a shout and another, duller, thud.

Gillian can’t be sure, but that voice sounds familiar…

She peaks through the gap between the hinges and catches the murderer standing up slowly and waddling carefully over the mostly-melted ice cubes. At the end of the hallway they turn right towards her bedroom.

Summoning all of her courage, Gillian abandons her hiding spot. Quietly, she advances across the kitchen, brandishing her skillet like a racket.

From her bedroom, the murderer swears. Gillian knows who it is, now. She’s sure of it.

The murderer opens the door. Just like a tennis, she tells herself and swings.

The cast-iron is unwieldy and heavy. Her aim is way off. Fortunately, people are significantly larger targets than tennis balls, so her blow lands anyway. With an oof, the intruder doubles over.

“Looking for me, Sebastian?” Gillian hisses.

“Foster!” He lifts his arm and shoots, but his aim is off as he staggers to his feet. “How’d you know?”

“I never forget a voice.”

Sebastian keeps the gun trained on her, steady without a hint of a tremor. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“I always knew this day would come.” 100% a lie. She didn’t have any idea that this day would come. Gillian is astonished that he would go this far, but maybe bluffing will get more information out of him.

Roughly, Sebastian shoves her to the floor. The cast-iron skillet goes skittering down the hallway. He grabs her hair, forcing her into a kneeling position. “You can’t change my mind.”

“I hear that,” Gillian gasps out, knowing that she’s lost control of the situation.

“Any last words?” he snarls.

“See you tomorrow, Sebastian.”

The last thing Gillian hears is a gunshot.

As she lies on the floor, body growing cold, a neighbor calls the police to report the sound of gunshots. EMS declare her dead on arrival. Detective Swanson and his crew sweep the scene, concluding that this was a murder. No one can explain why the hallway is wet.

18 minutes away, Cal tosses and turns in a fitful sleep, knowing that she’s gone. He hopes that she didn’t suffer, prays that the day will restart.

Cal’s watch ticks from 11:59 to midnight.