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1:58 a.m.

I thought I was fated to save Paz’s life, but maybe I’m fated to die with him.

I’m hiding from the Death Guard raider, crouched behind this mahogany grandfather clock, my face pressed so close to the panel

door that I can hear the faintest of ticks in between the security alarm, Margie outside shouting for help, and the blood

rushing to my head. Through the reflection of another clock I watch the raider smashing the shop’s timepieces with his bat

while repeatedly calling for the death of Death-Cast. There’s no way I’m getting out of this alive.

Thankfully I already left that time capsule for my parents—

Oh no. The time capsule is connected to my Death-Cast identification number, meaning that since I’ve deactivated my account,

it can’t be triggered open. My parting messages and secret are going to the grave with me.

All at once, the clocks begin chiming, gonging, chirping, blaring, a cacophony of time that’s louder than the Death-Cast call I should’ve been receiving tonight. The grandfather clock I’m leaning against is so loud and startling that I fall over, exposed. I get lucky because the raider is too busy pummeling the loudest grandfather clock. He’s too big for me to fight, but I could sneak up and hit him with a mantel clock or that massive brick on the floor that has “DEATH-CAST IS UNNATURAL” written on it in chalk. That should give Paz and me enough time to escape and for the police to resolve this themselves.

By the fifth gong, I’m ready to move on the raider when I see Paz hiding against the edge of the counter, staring off into

space. It’s the same look from when I found him ready to kill himself on the Hollywood Sign. I don’t trust Paz to not do something

stupid, so I crouch-run to the counter and wave my hand over his eyes to get him to snap out of it. He looks at me.

“You okay?” I mouth.

There’s a fury in Paz’s eyes.

I need to be able to defend us. Behind the counter, there are extra light bulbs stored on a shelf that we could throw and

Richard’s wrapped present for his son that needs to be protected at all costs, but the tin toolbox under the cash register

might be our best bet.

“Stay here,” I whisper in his ear. My stitched-up wounds hurt as I crawl toward the toolbox. I’m nervous about making too

much noise, so I time all my movements with the security alarm sequence—unlatching the toolbox, lifting the tray, grabbing

the hammer and wrench for us to use on the raider.

Then I turn around to find that Paz has his own plan to save us: he’s pulled out his gun.