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  This had to work.

  “Leanor! Open up, goddammit!”

  To her side, behind another door, a voice asked, “What the hell?” The door opened, a thin man with a pale face staring. “If she doesn’t want you—”

  “I’m her friend,” Charlotte said, a hand on her hip.

  The man frowned like he’d smelled a dirty sock.

  Charlotte fished around inside her pocket and pulled out the keys she’d used below. “See?” And she fit in the other one. “Just for emergencies,” Leanor had said. Predicting this? “Her friend.” She slotted the key in, twisted it, and swung open the door. “Leanor? Where are you?”

  “Get out of there,” the man said. “Out, or I’ll, I’ll, I’ll call the police.”

  “Go ahead,” Charlotte said, and slammed the door behind her.

  The apartment was empty.

  No sign of Leanor. The place was surprisingly clean. The bed in the bedroom was made. No dishes left out in the kitchen. Almost as if Leanor expected Charlotte’s call. As if she lived her life ready to leap away from danger at any moment.

  There was no laptop, no schematics to be seen. Wherever Leanor went, she’d taken everything she needed and would never come back. The only thing she’d left behind, aside from a closet full of clothes and a refrigerator of food, was the cell phone on the floor.

  Exactly as Charlotte had heard.

  “I’ve called the police!” the man said from outside the door, but Charlotte didn’t care. If Leanor had run through time, Charlotte could fix this. All she had to do was be cautious with her timing. Not accidentally cross her own path and trigger a headache.

  She pulled the astrolabe from her bag and dialed back time, taking care not to go too far. Just the few minutes it had taken to explore the apartment. She released, and her ghost walked back through the door, which slammed shut, and right before her Leanor reappeared. The same woman she’d seen killed only days ago. Years ago.

  This woman wasn’t the kind Leanor who Charlotte had known. Her white eyebrows were knitted together. Her mouth turned down into a frown. Her hand was a fist by her side. Not the Leanor she’d been trying to save, but someone completely different.

  A knock at the door reminded her that she had work to do. Fast. “Leanor, we don’t have much time.”

  The phone slid from Leanor’s hand, clattering to the floor. “Charlotte? You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I know, but I’m here, there.” Charlotte waved behind her. “We need your help. Please don’t go. We can’t find Ana. We stopped one bomb, but not the others. And the Blast. Where does it send New York? Why? And where in time would Ana place the bombs?”

  “I’m sorry,” Leanor said, and her voice told Charlotte that she was. That the kind person Charlotte knew wasn’t completely gone. She was in there somewhere. “But if you’re here, they could be too.”

  “You mean Paris? Ana?” She hadn’t even considered that. Damn it, she could’ve led him right here. But in the back of her mind, a little voice reminded Charlotte, He didn’t need your help before. “You’re not safe,” Charlotte said. She had to get through to Leanor now.

  “I told you before, none of that matters.”

  Charlotte reached a hand out to grab her mentor. “I know what the Blast does. I know about the bomber. But she’s gone, leapt away, I can’t find her. Don’t you want me to find her?”

  Behind came a few knocks, then Charlotte’s past self arguing with the neighbor. Less than a minute remained.

  “Of course,” Leanor said sharply, eyes fixed on the space behind Charlotte. No rush of relief swelled through Charlotte upon learning she’d been right about Leanor’s final words. In the silence, the sound of a key fitting into the lock reverberated. “But you found her twice, didn’t you? You can find her again.”

  “But how? Monroe wants to try the future, Bill wants to go to the past. And Charlie, Paris threatened Charlie.” Charlotte remembered how little Leanor knew her at this time. Almost as little as Charlotte knew her. “My son. He’s threatened my son.”

  “He’ll give you time,” Leanor said, stepping away from Charlotte’s grip. “I promise, he can’t stop the bomber either. She’d never listen to him, and he’s too impatient with the bombs. They need you; they’ll wait. I promise. I’m sorry.”

  She was going to her death; Charlotte could see it in her eyes. This woman had fled, with or without Charlotte here. Straight into Paris’s arms. In her past, Charlotte would witness Leanor’s death, cry over her body. “You can’t—”

  But before Charlotte could finish, Leanor placed a hand in her pocket and vanished.

  There hadn’t been any astrolabe in sight. But if Leanor had made a time device before, she could’ve made it smaller while Charlotte worked on their prototype. “Damn it. Damn her.” She’d fled, and without any burn marks on the floor it was impossible to say when.

  Maybe she’d be safe. Or maybe Paris would murder her again. There was only one way to know for certain, and Charlotte wasn’t about to travel back to that horrible day in the distant past.

  Behind her, the doorknob twisted. “Leanor?” came her own voice from outside the door as it swung open. Just in time, Charlotte spun her own astrolabe to the future, her past self seeing her for a split second. A momentary headache triggered, but didn’t last. She was safely away.

  Well, not completely safe.

  Charlotte raced from the apartment, shoved past the man waiting with his phone, ran down the steps, and spun herself forward a couple years. Flashing blue and red lights arrived for a second, but she was gone.

  As she trudged back to the Upper East Side, Charlotte replayed everything. Every moment from when she’d lifted her hand to wave at Leanor’s shadow. What could she have done differently? Why had Leanor run again?

  “They need you,” Leanor had said. “He can’t stop the bomber either.”

  Either.

  Which meant Leanor couldn’t help them for some reason. But if Ana was so dangerous, why enlist Charlotte? Or maybe …

  Charlotte jerked her head up on the subway, staring through the glass as underground pylons sped by.

  Ana knew them. Ana must have known Paris as much as she’d known Leanor. And if she saw them or felt their presence, she’d do more than run from a confused new time traveler. She’d fight.

  It was up to them, and them alone. Leanor couldn’t help. Paris could only threaten. Which meant that Charlotte and her family had to work hard. Had to explore every possibility.

  Charlotte clutched her hands into fists as the subway pulled to her stop. Monroe was going to hate her, but this night wasn’t over. It was time to send Bill to the past, to help him implement his plan, and pray that Leanor had been correct when she’d said two more words: “They’ll wait.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BILL’S PLAN

  JUNE 24, 2023

  Charlotte pushed through the door to Monroe’s apartment and found Bill sitting where she’d left him, staring at the dark television. He must have turned it off in the few minutes it took for her to get to the alley and back. “Hey,” she said, not bothering to set down her bag.

  He twisted, his eyebrows lifting in hope. “How’d it go? Did she give you anything?”

  Now Charlotte was forced to take stock of all that had happened. She’d been going over Leanor’s words as if they held a clue, as if they were something to cling to. But the truth was that the words were empty. So they were on the right path, so they were the only ones who could stop the bombs, none of that really mattered.

  Charlotte’s shoulders fell. “Nothing. Just that we’re doing what she wanted.” Shaking her head, Charlotte folded her hair over, smoothing it down. “But she said they’ll give us time to figure this out. So, you ready?”

  Sighing, Bill twisted back to the television, resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice soft and confused.

  They’ll give us time, Charlotte reminded herself as she set down her
bag. She joined Bill on the couch, stretching an arm to touch his back lightly. “He hasn’t come out to talk?”

  Bill frowned, pulling out of his slouch to give her a look.

  “Of course not,” she said. It had only been minutes. Minutes since she’d convinced Bill to wait, to let her go first. Convinced Bill that maybe he’d never have to implement the plan that had made Monroe furious.

  “I thought he’d be happy that I wasn’t focusing on the Lusitania,” Bill said. “That I was thinking about the greater good. But by then, I’d already rejected his idea. He was on the defensive and thought that my idea was why I’d said no to the future. That I thought I was smarter or …” He held his palms out, his voice making airless syllables. He settled on a topic. “He told me that you’d been to the future.”

  “Me?”

  “Today.”

  Today? But today she’d just visited Felix. Gone to lunch with him … Oh. “That wasn’t the same. Three hours in the future isn’t two hundred years.”

  “He was so certain you’d come home and be on his side.”

  Two days ago, she hadn’t wanted to be on anyone’s side but Monroe’s. She hadn’t wanted Bill here, but now she was glad he was. That was all Monroe’s fault. But Bill was right, just as he’d been about time’s malleability. His plan just made more sense.

  “How did it start?” Charlotte asked. A whole day of fighting, and she’d only caught the tail end. “You came home, you talked to ’Roe. What was supposed to happen?”

  His pale eyes met hers. “Honestly? I thought he'd be thrilled. I thought …” Again, his voice dwindled away. His wide shoulders sagged.

  “You thought he’d come with you.”

  “He wouldn’t even hear it. Thought I was placating him. And now everything’s fucked.”

  Charlotte could tell him to wait. She could tell him to go into Monroe’s bedroom, to snuggle with him, to remedy things. In the morning, there’d be plenty of time. Bill and Monroe could go into the past and balance each other.

  But her own failure nagged at her.

  She had time, according to Leanor, but it didn’t feel like it. It felt like every moment was one more in which Paris could appear. No matter how much she told herself there was time, she couldn’t believe it.

  “He’ll understand,” Charlotte said, hating herself as she rubbed Bill’s back. “When we have a lead, when we take him with us to stop Ana, he’ll forget his plan. He’ll just be happy to be in history again.” One of her baldest lies.

  “Sure,” Bill said, pushing himself to his feet. “Maybe.” God, he was trying so hard to convince himself this wasn’t a bad idea. Charlotte could see it from his lowered eyebrows. But even she wasn’t sure.

  Like Monroe warned, Bill’s instincts could kick in and he’d change history. Or he’d be good, and Monroe would still be furious. Or worse, he’d fail like she had.

  No, Charlotte reminded herself, there’s time.

  “Here,” she said, standing alongside him then crossing to the door. She knelt to where her purse lay, bulky with the astrolabe. She pulled out Charlie’s toys, her wallet, and a few other small items until only the astrolabe remained. “Now you get to see how it feels.”

  How weird to pass the astrolabe off to someone. Even Leanor hadn’t used it as much, content to let Charlotte be the one in control. But then, she probably wanted Charlotte familiar with it. After all, she already had a time device of her own. “Do you mind if I come with you for a bit? Only, Charlie’s with Felix, Monroe’s in his room.” All her family were elsewhere: in other apartments, other rooms. But Bill and she shared a connection, too. Joining Bill, even for a little bit, would remind her that there was time.

  That all would be well.

  “Of course,” Bill said, accepting her bag—which now that Charlotte looked at it was clearly a purse. Gold details were set into the handles and pockets.

  “Maybe we can find you something more fitting,” she said.

  And Bill smiled. At first, it was forced, pretending Monroe wasn’t in the other room stewing. But it softened, grew wider, became real. This would be his first time in control of his own science fiction life.

  Bill reached inside the purse and lofted the astrolabe in one hand. “It’s really beautiful, Charlotte. Maybe when all this is done, you and Leanor can change the design. Remove the time travel, but still sell it to children as the astrolabe you thought you were building.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Done” was a long way off. She pushed out the door, into the humid evening. The rain had passed, but clouds still trapped the moisture in. It reflected off the concrete, the asphalt, and the brick of Monroe’s apartment building. “Ready?” Charlotte asked when they arrived at the alley where she’d appeared a few minutes prior.

  In the darkness of the wet night, Bill illuminated the orb. Lights reflected off the sidewalk, the apartments across the way, even off of Charlotte’s polished black shoes. Now that she was with someone, she found herself seeing the beauty once more. Then Bill twisted the stars back.

  At first he spun too fast, the readout quickly heading back to the early 900s. Thank God he hadn’t released, sending them back to the jungle of Mannahatta. Still keeping his hand on the astrolabe, Bill twisted the lights forward more slowly, watching the readout tick forward in years. He tested speeds, flicking through the years, until at last he'd picked the date he wanted.

  April 8, 1996. Twenty years before the Blast.

  “Here we go,” he said, and lifted his fingers. The sun rose back up above them, then crashed below into the street. Soon scaffolding grew in front of the buildings across the way, and when they disappeared, it was dirtier. Cars streamed by, impossible to see, until everything slowed. The cabs were no longer hybrids, but were still bright yellow. The only store remaining from Charlotte's time was a bodega. The sign was different, but bore the same name it would in thirty years.

  “Monroe and I are six,” Charlotte said, gazing down the street. “Only now warming up to Dad.” She couldn’t remember most of the details, just flashes of a large warm hand clasped around hers, a dress that she swore she’d never wear, Dad taking her side in an argument with Monroe.

  “I figured I’d set up shop here,” Bill said. “That way I could look for days, weeks, whatever. And once I come home, no time at all will have passed for you and Monroe.”

  Days, weeks, months, it could even be years. How long would Paris actually give them? Or if hardly any time passed for Charlotte, would he not care? What metric was he using? She shook the questions away. They were, all of them, impossible to answer. “Well, if you’re going to live here, you’ll need cash. And some ID or other, even if it’s a bit fake.”

  “Yeah. I’ll probably have to rent an apartment from someone who doesn’t care about legitimacy.”

  “The money I’ve got covered,” Charlotte said, reaching into the purse around Bill’s shoulder. She rifled around and pulled out a bag labeled “90s,” thick with twenty dollar bills. “Once I learned what the astrolabe did, Leanor sent me on a day-long trip of exchanging bills.”

  She couldn’t say how long it had actually taken. She had to pull out two thousand dollars—across various days—then go back and exchange them every time a new bill was released. “I just like the look of the old ones better,” she’d said, again and again. Until she had money enough for four different periods, easily split out into bags.

  “Jeez,” Bill said, taking the bag. “This must be around …” He opened it, flipped through. “Five hundred dollars.”

  “Around there,” Charlotte said. “I knew it’d come in handy eventually.”

  “I actually did a little research into the ID thing, once Monroe finished yelling at me.” He’d been that confident that she’d take his side. Or was it just a matter of gathering information? Charlotte couldn’t decide.

  Without leaping through time at all, Bill led them to a subway and headed downtown to the seedier streets of the Lower East Side. Together they w
andered through alleys until Bill found what he was looking for: a man with a shaved head and tattoos riddling his arms.

  Charlotte stood behind Bill, her arms folded to show off the muscles that Bill didn’t have. With a grateful smile to her, Bill gave the man a couple hundred dollars, offering more on delivery. Two days forward in time, they met back up with the man, and Bill gave him the rest of the money from the bag.

  The man counted it, nodded, and supplied Bill with more than Charlotte expected. Not just an ID, but a Social Security card and birth certificate. A shiver ran down Charlotte’s spine. Giving up all of the money she had for this time, getting identification that looked completely believable … Bill must have planned more than a crash house.

  The shiver crept away from her spine, shaking her limbs, turning her stomach, buzzing in her mind. She’d taken his side. She’d sworn to Monroe that she believed Bill—and she had—that he wouldn’t change the past. “Bill?” she asked as they walked away from the alleyway. If he was going to start soon, she didn’t have much time left with him. “What are you doing?”

  They walked along the streets of the Lower East Side, no wide canal filled with boats in their path. In a world before the Blast, before 9/11, what could Bill want?

  “Don’t go looking for trouble. Please,” she said, grabbing his shoulder and turning him. He had to face her, he couldn’t just keep walking away. “Please don’t let Monroe be right.”

  He looked her deep in the eyes, connecting with her. “I won’t,” he said. “I promise.” And once again, she believed him.

  She looked backward toward their path, like she could see through apartments to where the deal had gone down. Then back to Bill, to the purse at his side, filled with too-real documents of his new existence here. “Then why do you need such a good ID? You could’ve spent that five hundred dollars to get some crummy apartment, to set you up for just a month.”

  He gulped hard, his eyes no longer meeting hers. Looking at the ground, the sky, the same direction she’d looked, toward that alley. “I’m …” His green eyes snapped onto hers. “I’m going to become a cop. Try to join the bomb squad. Learn some tips, get stronger.”