But the date of birth on the certificate matches mine, along with other things like my parents’ names and my current residence with the Robertsons. It has to be me.

Then I see the date of death, and it’s like someone’s taken my heart and crushed it in their fist.

Friday. Tomorrow. The day after this crazy time-travel experiment. The day we return to our normal lives.

The walls close around me. I can’t die tomorrow. I’m not ready. I need days, months, years to figure out how to stop this from happening. I’m not even eighteen. I can’t die yet.

But the others died thirty years ago too. It has to be true.

This is the last day of my life.

When I was a kid, Mamá would tap her watch and say, “Hay más tiempo que vida.” There’s more time than life. She meant it in a life-is-short-seize-the-day kind of way, but her words take on new meaning for me now. I check her watch, touching the cool face with my finger, trying to find some comfort from the familiar habit. There’s something soothing about the predictability of time. No matter what happens, there are always sixty seconds in a minute, sixty minutes in an hour, twenty-four hours in a day. For years, this watch, with its steady ticking hands, was my one constant.

In all those years, even in my darkest moments, I’ve never wanted more than those sixty seconds, sixty minutes, twenty-four hours.

Now I’d give anything to have more time.

But I’m not dead yet. The ticking watch, my beating heart, the smell of the musty books around me, they all mean I still have time. Not much time, but hopefully enough to stop this.

I pull myself together, brushing hair out of my face. I told Zoe and Chris that we were going to fix this, that we were going to change the future, and I have to believe we can. But to do that, I need more information.

My time of death is 11:38 p.m., a little over twenty-four hours after we return to the present. The place of death says Santa Monica State Beach. Not very descriptive, since the beach is pretty big, and I have no idea why I’d be there so late.

I scroll down, but when I see the cause of death, I have to cover my mouth to keep from crying out.

Self-Inflicted Gunshot Wound. Suicide.

I’m the girl Shawnda mentioned, the one who shoots the others and then herself.

I’m the killer.

07:17

07:17

No, it can’t be. But the words stare back at me. Self-inflicted gunshot wound. Suicide.

No, no, no. It doesn’t make sense. I would never kill the others—would I?