by Jena Leigh
Alex reached out and laid her hand over Nate’s, stilling his movements. He dropped the half-torn blade of grass in his hand.
She wanted to comfort him. To ease the look of pain and anger in his expression.
She didn’t know how.
He threaded his fingers through hers, then shifted his gaze to the outskirts of the field.
“You know the weirdest part?” he asked. “The whole time they were dating, Masterson would send her these bouquets of white irises at work—one bouquet a week, so that she always had a fresh arrangement of her favorite flowers on her desk.”
The idea of Masterson being thoughtful enough to send a woman flowers made Alex’s brow furrow. It didn’t fit with the monstrous image of him in her head.
Nate cleared his throat. “After the funeral, someone started placing bouquets of white irises at her gravesite. A fresh bouquet every week. Even now, there are always irises resting on her tombstone whenever I visit.”
Alex looked up. “They were being left there even after Masterson was put on ice? Then who was…?”
Nate shook his head. His smile held little humor. “About five years or so after her death, I managed to catch someone in the act.”
“Who was it?”
“Flower delivery guy,” he said. “Apparently, just after mom’s death, some guy walked into a florist’s shop down the road from the graveyard and set up an account to ensure that fresh flowers would be delivered to the gravesite every week. Paid an obscene amount of money to make it happen.”
“Did they know the man’s name?”
He shook his head. “They had it down as a Mr. John Smith.” Nathaniel’s expression became pinched. “Think we could keep that between us? It’s not really something I want the others to know about.”
“Of course,” she said. “I won’t say a word.”
And Alex never meant to.
Right now, however, she needed Nathaniel to trust her. She needed to prove to him that she could be trusted.
Back in the apartment’s shadowy living room, Aiden’s scowl deepened. “That’s the second time you’ve said that and it still means nothing to me.”
“That’s because it’s not for you, Aiden,” said Alex.
Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How do you know about the flowers, Alex?”
“Because you told me about them.”
Nathaniel shook his head, dismissing the possibility. “You could have followed me. The fact that you know about the flowers doesn’t prove anything.”
“What—what flowers?!” asked Aiden. “What the hell is she even talking about?”
“John Smith,” she said.
A beat.
“Proves nothing,” Nathaniel repeated.
“Alright, enough.” Aiden took a step closer to the couch. “She’s obviously nuts. Humoring her is the last thing we should be doing. Alex, where is your home?”
Alex didn’t reply. Nathaniel was still staring at her intently.
She met his gaze and held it.
“Tell us where your home is, Alex,” repeated Aiden. “Or we take you to the nearest cop shop and leave you there for them to deal with.”
Frustrated, Alex blurted, “It’s Masterson! Samuel Masterson is John Smith. He’s the one behind it!”
That got her a reaction… just not the one she’d been hoping for.
Aiden snorted in amusement. “Okay, now—do you see? I told you she was crazy,” he said, before adding, “Samuel Masterson is dead.”
Aside from a slight frown, Nathaniel’s expression hardly changed.
Crossing the room in two quick strides, Aiden reached the couch, leaned down, and grabbed Alex by the elbows.
“Aiden, what—?” she stuttered, her question cut short as the towering O’Connell jerked her onto her feet and began guiding her toward the front door of the apartment.
She could have resisted, but it wouldn’t have done her much good. Aiden’s grip was like an iron cuff around her wrist.
Besides. She didn’t want to fight them. She was still hoping to convince them.
Three seconds.
Four.
Five.
The abilities transfer must have begun by now, even if she couldn’t sense it.
“Please, Aiden.”
He snatched a set of keys from the counter as they passed by the cramped kitchen, then flipped the deadbolt on the apartment’s front door and yanked it open to reveal a long, brightly lit hallway on the other side.
“Aiden, you have to listen to me.” Alex worked to keep the panic from her voice. “You have to believe me. I need your help!”
“Oh, it’s pretty clear you need help, Alex Parker,” he said. “Just not from me.”
They made their way out and into the hall, her black Chucks stumbling over the carpeted floor as she was pulled along.
Nathaniel’s voice reached them from the living room. “Aiden… wait.”
Inside the apartment, Nathaniel had flipped on the kitchen light. In his right hand was a colorful piece of glossy paper.
He held it up. “Where did you get this, Alex?”
Her arm still trapped in Aiden’s iron grasp, Alex hesitated. From that distance, she wasn’t entirely sure what it was he was holding.
Tugging her wrist loose from Aiden’s coiled fingers, she took a slow step forward.
The photograph.
The same photograph Aiden gave her just before her trial by fire with the Agency.
The same photograph Aiden claimed was a gift for her—from Nathaniel.
The picture he now held was one taken of Grayson’s original team, gathered with their young children out back of the Parker’s former home in North Carolina, smiling and happy and blissfully ignorant of the horrors still to come.
It must have fallen out of the back pocket of her jeans while she was asleep on the couch.
“Where did you get this, Alex?” Nate asked again.
“I—it was a gift.”
Nathaniel took a few steps toward her, studying her expression carefully as he approached, searching for the truth in the lines of her face.
“A gift?”
She nodded.
“From whom?”
Alex bit her lower lip.
Telling Nathaniel the truth might convince him once and for all—or, it might serve as the final nail in her coffin.
The question was, which?
She closed her eyes. “From you, Nate. You gave me the photograph.”
Silence descended upon the small apartment. When Alex finally found the courage to open her eyes and gauge Nathaniel’s reaction, she found that he’d turned away.
He stood facing the glass doors to the patio, unmoving.
When a long moment passed and still no one spoke, Alex hesitantly began her explanation. “It was just before I left… before I jumped back to this time. You gave it to me as a gift. Said you wanted me to have it.”
Technically, Aiden had been the one to give it to her—but that was only because Nathaniel was in Agency custody at the time. Aiden had been very clear about who was giving her the photograph.
Nathaniel finally turned back around. “Come back inside, Aiden,” he said. “The girl stays.”
Six
Declan didn’t land.
He crashed, painfully, onto the top of a felt-lined pool table already racked and prepped for its next game of eight-ball. His left shoulder slammed into the triangular collection of billiard balls, scattering them across the table, sending a few onto the floor, and leaving the rest trapped beneath Declan’s sprawled form.
A deep voice grunted in surprise. “What the hell?”
Stifling a groan, Declan retrieved the billiard ball jammed painfully beneath his rib cage and squinted at the number painted atop the white dot. He wheezed an exhalation and dropped the eight ball back onto the tabletop.
Across from the table a black-and-white dart board and the red fluorescent outline of a horse’s head advertised Killian’s Ir
ish Red amber lager. Beneath it on a corkboard, flyers announced shows for local bands and promoted a charity event hosted by a nearby tattoo parlor.
It took Declan roughly half a second to figure out that he was back home in New York. He had crash landed on one of the pool tables at The Corner Pocket, a bar not far from the cabin—one he knew well.
Declan smiled through the pain.
He was back. And if he’d made it home, then maybe Alex had, too.
Alex.
He had to find her.
“Declan? Damn, kid, where’d you come from? Benji got you working on a school night? That side business of his must be booming if he’s called you in for a delivery run on your night off.”
A pair of hands grabbed Declan by the front of his dark gray jacket and hauled him upright. He shook off the head rush, trying to bring the world back into focus.
The owner of the hands ducked his head into Declan’s line of sight, looking him over in concern just as Declan’s vision cleared.
A pale twenty-something with short, jet-black hair, a multitude of piercings, and arms sleeved with tattoos held him upright. Bright green eyes stared back into his.
Declan shuffled backward on the table, bumping his head against a low-hanging lamp.
Surprise hit him like a punch in the gut.
“You look like hell, kid,” said Trent, raising a pierced eyebrow in amusement. “And that face of yours could use a shave. Surprised Grayson even let you out of the house.”
Declan ran a hand over his scalp, checking for sore spots. He must have hit his head when he landed.
He had to have hit his head.
Because this… this was impossible.
Trent misunderstood the strangled look on Declan’s face. “Aw, man. Don’t sweat it. I’m sure you’ll start sticking your landings again one of these days. It’s probably just a phase or something. Although, I gotta say, your tumble into the dumpster last week was comedy gold, so I’m kind of hoping you don’t figure it out any time soon.” He nodded toward the pool table. “But you’re racking that table back. I ain’t doing it twice.”
Clapping him on the shoulder, Trent shook his head and flashed him a grin before resuming his former activity of clearing tables. Still unable to speak, Declan continued to stare at his old friend in amazement.
Trent kept talking, snatching two empty bottles off of a table and dropping them behind the bar. “Just closed for the night a few minutes ago. Benji’s in the back, getting a delivery ready,” he said. “But I guess you know that since you’re here. Thought he was going to have Jesse do it. Shows how much attention I pay to the old man.”
Declan still didn’t reply.
Trent narrowed his eyes. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with that much scruff on your face before.” He gave him another once over. “And when did you start hitting the gym?”
“Trent?” said Declan, his voice shaky.
“Yeah, man?”
“You… you’re here.”
Trent snorted, grabbing the towel off his left shoulder and using it to wipe down a table. “It’s Monday night, Decks. Where the hell else would I be?”
Monday?
But it was a Wednesday.
The revelation that followed hit Declan like a bag of bricks dropped from ten stories up.
Monday. School nights. Deliveries.
Trent.
Ignoring the pain still radiating through his shoulder, Declan leapt from the pool table and ran flat out toward the back of the bar.
The door to Benji’s office stood open. Declan strode inside without waiting for an invitation and then spun to the left, urgently scanning one of the pages tacked to an aging bulletin board.
“And hello to you, too, O’Connell,” said a familiar mid-western growl.
At the top of the work schedule, printed in Benji’s haphazard scrawl, was a set of dates.
“Benji?” Declan couldn’t tear his eyes from the calendar.
“What, kid?”
“What’s the date?”
“What?”
“The date. I need to know today’s date.”
Benji harrumphed. “It’s Monday, October 24th.” He paused. “No. Hang on. It’s past midnight. It’s Tuesday, now.”
Declan went cold as he stared at the Corner Pocket’s work calendar.
Alex had actually done it. Declan had been sent back in time. Just how far back in time, he couldn’t be sure yet, but one thing was for certain—unless his Alex was also here in this time, he would be taking the long road back to his present.
Declan was officially stranded in the past.
“Tuesday?” he echoed.
“For the next 23 and a half hours.” Benji sighed. “Why are you here, O’Connell? You’re not on again until Friday. Did Jesse ask you to pick up tonight’s run?”
Run.
The run.
It was a delivery day.
“Declan?”
He finally turned to face his former boss.
“You here for the run, or what?”
“Yeah. I mean… no,” Declan’s thoughts were screaming through his head at roughly a thousand miles an hour. “No, Jesse’s got it. I just, uh. I just needed to check the schedule.”
Benji rewarded him with the look he generally reserved for customers who were that special sort of drunk. “You’ve had the same hours for six months now, kid. It’s a school night. Go home. Last thing I need is the almighty Grayson giving me grief.”
Six months? If Declan had been working for Benji for six months, then that put him a little less than two years in the past.
Two years ago, October.
He bolted from the office, leaving his old boss staring after him, perplexed.
Declan had just remembered what had happened two years ago, October 25th.
“Trent!”
“Yo,” Trent was drying pint glasses behind the bar, his back to Declan.
Declan grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.
“Whoa!” Trent struggled to regain his balance. “What, Decks?”
“Whereareyougoingtonight?” he asked in a rush.
“What?”
“After you get off work—where are you going?”
Trent stared blankly at Declan, his mouth opening and closing, then opening again as he struggled to make sense of the question and formulate a reply.
“Where, Trent?”
“Nowhere!” said Trent, finally. “I’m just going home, Decks, and I’m starting to think that maybe you should do the same.”
“No,” said Declan, shaking his head. “No, you’re going somewhere tonight, Trent. You didn’t—I mean, you won’t—”
“I’m going home, Declan. Back to my gloriously shitty, ramshackle apartment. It’s been a long night of bitching customers and lousy tips and there’s a lumpy-assed futon back at my place that has my name written all over it.” Trent set the glass he’d been drying off back down on the bar and shook his head, bemused. “What’s with you tonight, man?”
“Midnight, October 25th. Tonight’s the night, Trent.”
“What?” he asked. “What is?”
Declan’s mind raced as he struggled to devise a plan.
He needed to find Alex. That was his number one priority right now—and it would have been his only priority, if not for this.
He just had to pray that wherever Alex was, she was safe, because he couldn’t leave New York right now. Maybe by morning, but certainly not tonight. Not when he still had a chance to change things.
Not when he still had a chance to save his friend’s life.
Unease was creeping gradually into Trent’s expression, causing his familiar, cynical grin—the same grin Declan had so carefully modeled his own after, years before—to fall from his face.
Slowly, nervously, Trent asked, “What is tonight, kid?”
Declan swallowed hard and let out a shaky breath. “Tonight’s the night you disappear.”
Coffee.
Kenzie O’Connell stirred beneath the mound of blankets she’d piled high atop her bed before falling into it the night before. October in the mountains was a tricky beast—as was the temperamental nature of the cabin’s heating system.
Years earlier, she’d shoved her bed inch by inch across the hardwood floor until it reached its final resting place beneath the double windows that looked out an angle over the lake below.
Excellent view.
Subarctic drafts.
Coffee.
There it was again. The achingly familiar scent that had dragged her from her blissful slumber. The only scent capable of pulling her back from the insulating depths of her dreams.
In addition to being against the exterior wall, Kenzie’s room was also located just above the kitchen. If she was smelling coffee, it meant someone else in the house was already awake and jonesing for a fix.
She sighed.
Time to get up. Last night’s sleep had been anything but restful. She was still exhausted.
But the alarm on her cell hadn’t chimed yet, so maybe just a few more minutes…
Floorboards keep creaking. Must step more lightly. Watch out for the mugs of coffee. Two mugs, and one’s for Red—ack! Too full! Need to be more careful not to spill.
The impression was brief, the thoughts fleeting.
She wasn’t sure to whom, exactly, the pilfered thoughts belonged. It was far too early, and focus was a luxury reserved for a caffeinated mind.
Kenzie obediently put her walls back in place, feeling a momentary surge of guilt for having once again skimmed someone’s thoughts by accident. At the rate she was going, complete control would always be just out of her reach.
The guilt evaporated as she finally processed what she had overheard.
Oh, what sweet, beautiful being was generous enough to bring her coffee at such an ungodly hour? Had Grayson returned early from his business trip? Maybe he needed to talk to her about something and was bringing the coffee in an attempt to ensure she was coherent.
Surely it wasn’t one of her brothers.
Since the death of his mom, Brian had transformed into an eight-year-old hermit. He was probably still holed up in his room, where he would remain until it was time to leave for school—same as he had done every weekday morning for months.