Ethan read the sentence again.

AND YOU KILL HER.

He didn’t blink.

Sarah stood beside him, completely still.

For several seconds, the apartment was silent.

Then Sarah whispered,

“Tell me that’s a joke.”

Ethan looked at her.

“I wish it was.”

She took the photograph from his hand.

Her fingers trembled.

“This wasn’t here before.”

“No.”

“You saw it?”

“I saw the photograph before you did.”

“And the words weren’t there?”

“No.”

Sarah looked at the wall.

The photograph had been pinned there.

But neither of them had seen anyone enter the apartment.

The front door was still locked.

The windows were closed.

There was no other exit.

Sarah slowly turned toward Ethan.

“Someone was here.”

“I know.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how did they take that picture?”

Ethan looked at the photograph again.

The image showed them standing in the apartment.

The angle was impossible.

The camera had been positioned behind them.

At approximately shoulder height.

There was no place in the room where someone could have stood without being noticed.

Ethan walked toward the wall.

He pulled the photograph free.

There was something written on the back.

23 HOURS.

He checked the time.

11:52 PM.

“Twenty-three hours until what?”

Sarah shook her head.

“I don’t know.”

Ethan looked at her.

“Do you remember anything unusual from the last few days?”

“No.”

“Think carefully.”

“I am thinking.”

“Any strange calls?”

“No.”

“Messages?”

“No.”

“Someone following you?”

“No.”

“Dreams?”

Sarah hesitated.

Ethan noticed.

“What?”

She looked away.

“Sarah.”

“I’ve been having the same dream.”

“How long?”

“A few weeks.”

“Tell me.”

She sat down.

“In the dream, I’m inside a hotel.”

“Ravenwood?”

“I don’t know.”

“What happens?”

“I’m walking through a corridor.”

“Then?”

“There are doors.”

“How many?”

“Six.”

Ethan frowned.

“Six doors?”

“Yes.”

“Do you open them?”

“I always open the first one.”

“What do you see?”

Sarah’s face became pale.

“A dead woman.”

Ethan stared at her.

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“What happens after that?”

“I wake up.”

“Every time?”

“Every time.”

“Have you ever seen her face?”

Sarah closed her eyes.

“Yes.”

“Who is she?”

Sarah opened her eyes.

“I don’t know.”

Ethan watched her.

“You’re lying.”

“No.”

“You recognized her.”

Sarah looked toward the window.

“I think so.”

“Who?”

“My mother.”

Ethan said nothing.

Sarah’s mother had died when Sarah was seventeen.

Ethan knew that.

He also knew she had died in a car accident.

“Your mother died twenty years ago.”

“I know.”

“So why would she be in your dream?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she ever go to Ravenwood?”

Sarah shook her head.

“I don’t know.”

Ethan’s phone vibrated.

A new message.

ASK HER ABOUT THE SIXTH DOOR.

Ethan showed Sarah.

She stared at it.

“What sixth door?”

“You said there were six.”

Sarah’s expression changed.

“There are five.”

“What?”

“In the dream, there are five doors.”

Ethan looked at the message again.

ASK HER ABOUT THE SIXTH DOOR.

He looked back at her.

“Then why did I receive this?”

Sarah didn’t answer.

A loud knock came from the apartment door.

Both of them froze.

Three knocks.

Slow.

Heavy.

Ethan reached for his gun.

Sarah whispered,

“Who is it?”

No answer.

Another knock.

Ethan moved toward the door.

“Stay here.”

He looked through the peephole.

Nobody.

The hallway was empty.

He opened the door.

A small package sat on the floor.

No name.

No address.

Ethan picked it up.

It was surprisingly heavy.

He brought it inside.

Sarah watched him.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

He opened the package.

Inside was a black envelope.

And a key.

The key had a metal tag attached.

RAVENWOOD — ROOM 217.

Sarah stared at it.

“Room 217.”

Ethan looked at her.

“The photograph.”

The clock in the photograph had shown 2:17.

Sarah’s face went pale.

“It’s a room number.”

Ethan nodded.

“Tomorrow.”

“Twenty-three hours.”

“Exactly.”

Sarah looked at the key.

“Why would they send us this?”

Ethan opened the envelope.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

Only one sentence.

SHE IS STILL ALIVE.

Sarah looked at him.

“Who?”

Ethan turned the paper over.

Nothing.

He looked at the key again.

“Maybe the woman from the photograph.”

“But the photograph shows me dead.”

“You’re not dead.”

“Yet.”

Ethan stared at the sentence.

Then he realized something.

The photograph wasn’t necessarily predicting the future.

It could have been showing something that had already happened.

But if that were true, Sarah should already be dead.

Unless the photograph had been manipulated.

Unless someone had staged it.

Unless the person who sent it wanted them to believe the future was already written.

Ethan grabbed his coat.

“Where are you going?”

“Ravenwood.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“It’s closed.”

“I know.”

“Police won’t let us in.”

“Then we’ll go without them.”

Sarah stood.

“I’m coming.”

“No.”

“I’m the person in the photograph.”

“Exactly.”

“You need me.”

Ethan looked at her.

She was right.

Twenty minutes later, they were driving toward Ravenwood.

The hotel stood on the northern edge of the city.

It had been abandoned for three years.

The road leading to it was surrounded by trees.

There were no streetlights.

No houses.

No businesses.

Only darkness.

As Ethan’s headlights passed through the trees, the hotel appeared.

Six floors.

Broken windows.

A faded sign.

RAVENWOOD HOTEL

Sarah stared at it.

“I’ve never been here.”

Ethan looked at her.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

They parked outside.

The front doors were chained.

Ethan cut the chain with a tool from his trunk.

Inside, the lobby smelled of damp wood and dust.

The reception desk was covered in papers.

A chandelier hung from the ceiling.

Most of its bulbs were broken.

Ethan switched on his flashlight.

Sarah stayed close.

“Room 217,” she whispered.

They found the staircase.

The second floor was darker.

The corridor stretched ahead of them.

Doors lined both sides.

Then 217.

Ethan inserted the key.

It turned easily.

The door opened.

Sarah stopped breathing.

The room looked exactly like the photograph.

Same bed.

Same lamp.

Same carpet.

Same chair.

Even the stain near the wall was identical.

Ethan stepped inside.

Sarah followed.

There was no body.

No blood.

Nothing unusual.

Then Sarah noticed something on the wall.

A clock.

It had stopped at 2:17.

Ethan looked at it.

“Again.”

Sarah walked toward the bed.

She suddenly stopped.

“What?”

She pointed beneath the bed.

Ethan crouched.

There was a box.

He pulled it out.

Inside were photographs.

Dozens of them.

Ethan picked up the first.

It showed Jonathan Reed.

The second showed Evelyn Shaw.

The third showed Sarah.

The fourth showed Ethan.

He kept looking.

Every photograph had been taken without their knowledge.

Sarah looked over his shoulder.

“These aren’t recent.”

“No.”

“How old?”

Ethan checked the dates written on the backs.

Some were five years old.

Some were ten.

One was dated twenty years earlier.

Sarah took it.

Her face changed.

“What?”

She handed it to Ethan.

The photograph showed a young woman standing outside Ravenwood.

Sarah recognized her immediately.

“My mother.”

Ethan looked at the date.

June 14, 2006.

Sarah was fourteen years old.

Her mother had been alive.

But the photograph showed her standing beside a man.

The man wore a dark coat.

His face was turned away.

Sarah whispered,

“I don’t understand.”

Ethan turned the photograph over.

There was a message.

SHE KNEW ABOUT THE SIXTH DOOR.

Sarah stepped backward.

“My mother never came here.”

“You said that.”

“She would have told me.”

“Maybe she couldn’t.”

Sarah shook her head.

“No.”

She began breathing faster.

“My mother was afraid of hotels.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Ethan looked through the photographs again.

Then he found another.

This one showed Sarah’s mother standing in the same room.

Room 217.

She was holding something.

A key.

Ethan looked at Sarah.

“Your mother was here.”

Sarah stared at the photograph.

Then she whispered,

“I remember.”

“What?”

“I remember this room.”

Ethan moved closer.

“You’ve been here?”

“No.”

“You just said you remember.”

“I was a child.”

“What do you remember?”

Sarah closed her eyes.

A memory surfaced.

A corridor.

A woman’s hand.

A red door.

Her mother’s voice.

Never open the sixth door.

Sarah opened her eyes.

“There were six doors.”

Ethan stared at her.

“You said there were five.”

“I was wrong.”

“How many?”

“Six.”

A noise came from the corridor.

Both turned.

Footsteps.

Someone was walking toward Room 217.

Ethan raised his gun.

The footsteps stopped outside.

The handle moved.

Ethan stepped beside the door.

The door opened.

Nobody was there.

Sarah whispered,

“Ethan.”

He looked down.

A trail of wet footprints led into the room.

But they stopped halfway.

There were no footprints leading back out.

Ethan followed them.

They ended beside the wardrobe.

He opened it.

Empty.

Then he noticed a small mirror attached to the inside wall.

His reflection stared back.

Sarah stood behind him.

Then Ethan noticed something wrong.

The reflection showed three people.

Ethan.

Sarah.

And a man standing behind Sarah.

Ethan turned.

Nobody.

He looked back at the mirror.

The man was still there.

He was holding a knife.

Ethan spun around again.

Nothing.

Sarah grabbed his arm.

“What?”

“Don’t look at the mirror.”

“Why?”

“Just don’t.”

The mirror suddenly cracked.

A single line appeared across the glass.

Then another.

Then another.

Within seconds, the entire mirror shattered.

Sarah screamed.

Something fell from behind it.

A small envelope.

Ethan picked it up.

His name was written on the front.

He opened it.

Inside was a photograph.

This time, Ethan couldn’t speak.

The photograph showed Sarah standing in Room 217.

She was alive.

But the photograph was dated tomorrow.

And behind her stood Ethan.

He was holding a gun.

Sarah looked at the photograph.

Her face went pale.

“You’re going to kill me.”

Ethan shook his head.

“No.”

“That’s you.”

“I know.”

“You’re holding a gun.”

“I would never—”

A sound interrupted him.

A phone ringing.

Not his.

Not Sarah’s.

An old telephone on the bedside table.

It was ringing.

Ethan slowly walked toward it.

Sarah whispered,

“Don’t answer.”

The phone kept ringing.

Ethan picked it up.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then a woman’s voice.

“Ethan.”

He froze.

He recognized the voice.

His mother.

Dead for fifteen years.

“Mom?”

The voice whispered,

“Don’t trust Sarah.”

The line went dead.

Ethan lowered the phone.

Sarah was staring at him.

“What did you hear?”

Ethan couldn’t answer.

“What did she say?”

He looked at Sarah.

“She said not to trust you.”

Sarah’s expression collapsed.

“Ethan…”

Before she could finish, every light in the hotel suddenly switched on.

The corridor outside Room 217 filled with yellow light.

A voice came through the hotel’s old speaker system.

Calm.

Male.

Almost cheerful.

“Welcome back, Detective Cole.”

Ethan raised his gun.

“Who are you?”

The speaker crackled.

“You’ve been here before.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

A pause.

Then the voice answered.

“Ten years ago.”

Sarah looked at Ethan.

The voice continued.

“You came here with Jonathan Reed.”

Ethan’s mind exploded with pain.

A flash.

Jonathan.

A gun.

Sarah’s mother.

Room 217.

A sixth door.

And a man standing behind him.

Then everything disappeared.

Ethan dropped to his knees.

Sarah grabbed him.

“Ethan!”

He looked up at her.

His eyes were wide.

“I remember the door.”

“What door?”

“The sixth door.”

“Where is it?”

Ethan slowly turned toward the corridor.

At the very end stood a door that hadn’t been there before.

A black door.

No number.

No handle.

Just a small metal plate.

217

Sarah whispered,

“That isn’t our room.”

Ethan stood.

The door opened by itself.

Darkness waited on the other side.

Then a woman’s scream came from inside.

Sarah grabbed Ethan’s hand.

“Someone’s in there.”

Ethan raised his gun.

They stepped toward the doorway.

And from somewhere inside the darkness, a man whispered,

“Twenty-two hours left.”

The door slammed shut.

Ethan looked at Sarah.

Neither of them spoke.

Then his phone vibrated.

One new photograph.

Sarah opened it.

It showed Room 217.

The room was empty.

Except for a body lying on the floor.

Sarah stared at it.

The woman looked exactly like her.

The timestamp beneath the photograph read:

Tomorrow — 2:17 AM.

Sarah slowly looked at Ethan.

“We have less than twenty-three hours.”

Ethan stared at the photograph.

“No.”

“What?”

“This isn’t a prediction.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the photograph shows something else.”

“What?”

Ethan pointed to the corner of the room.

A shadow stood there.

Watching the body.

The man in the dark coat.

And this time, his face was visible.

Ethan’s blood turned cold.

Because the face belonged to him.