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  “Well, ha fucking ha,” Charlotte said. She felt like she was boiling inside. Every part of her was getting hotter, her fingertips cutting into her palm. If he wasn’t going to help, maybe they didn’t need him. If they had to go to the future, they’d go without him.

  “It’s fine, Charlotte,” Bill said, his voice found. Charlotte swiveled to him, but his eyes remained on the pages. “He’s right. We shouldn’t have left him out. Should’ve run our ideas past him. I changed history. I thought I was being smart, but look what I did.”

  “I didn’t mean that.” Monroe said. He shook his head. “I want to be a part of this. I want to plan with you guys. To test stupid theories. I want to help.”

  “This is helping?” Charlotte gripped the police report condemning her, before crumpling it and throwing it at Monroe’s feet. “Telling us that we fucked up? Great, thanks. That’s so useful.” She turned from him. “Any other ideas, Bill?”

  “Charlotte,” Bill urged, his green eyes staring into hers. “Hear him out.”

  “How are you on his side?” Charlotte spat. “Because you finally realized you were being ridiculous at the Lusitania, all those years ago?”

  “That’s not—”

  “All I was saying,” Monroe interrupted, yelling, “is bring me! Ask for my ideas! You both jump into things without a plan, but a plan could’ve kept your work from the police, Char. It would’ve meant Bill spent less time searching every cool event in every Blast location. I mean, sure, I bet you had a great time, Bill. And, yeah, I’m jealous. Truman Capote’s party? That sounds fucking awesome. But it’s not where Ana would go. And we kinda knew that Leanor would run, Char. If we’re gonna stop these bombs, we have to be smarter. We have so few leads, we can’t afford to fuck them up.”

  “Like I did,” Charlotte said, shoving a clenched fist into her pocket.

  “No, I … We have to stop it,” Monroe said, his voice faltering. “We have to stop her.”

  We have to keep Charlie safe, he didn’t add. Charlotte couldn’t believe he’d forgotten.

  “I’m sorry, Monroe,” Bill said, lifting his pale eyes to Monroe’s. “I messed up. I should’ve waited. Should’ve forced you to come along. You’re the history expert. But back then you were so mad. And I thought I was smart enough, that my plan would work. Obviously I wasn’t.”

  How could Bill be apologizing? Did Monroe really think he had a sixth-sense about cameras? He always had to untag himself in pictures from nights clubbing.

  “I-it’s okay,” Monroe stammered, his gaze stuck on Bill. Maybe he was finally seeing that Bill didn’t deserve his fury. That didn’t change that he’d wasted a day. “We’ll find new leads.”

  “No,” Charlotte said, staring Monroe down. “I’ll find new leads. Because Charlie’s in danger. Because I have to make sure he’s okay. And you obviously don’t give a shit about that.”

  “Char—”

  But Charlotte was already at the door, swinging it wide. “You two have a good evening.” Before either of them said another word, she slammed the door behind her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  OUT OF IDEAS

  JUNE 25, 2023

  Charlotte replayed the scene as she stormed down the street, dry after a day of sticky sunlight. But the sun—just barely falling on the sidewalk before her—had done nothing for the humidity. It felt like she was swimming while she fumed. Couples passed by, happily chuckling to one another on their way to a meal. Probably exactly how Monroe and Bill would be acting in a few minutes.

  Wasn’t that what she wanted?

  But as a blond-haired woman laughed, leaning into her boyfriend, her husband, whoever, Charlotte remembered that smile on Monroe’s face. His delight at their failure. The truth was, he’d failed too. All those printouts may have proved a point, but they did nothing to point the way forward.

  “What an asshole,” Charlotte said to herself, gaining her a dark look from the passing pair. She didn’t even feel like apologizing.

  No leads, and Paris would have to show up soon. If he had some way of watching them, he’d know they’d run out of leads. That’s what mattered.

  She slowed her walk, realizing where her feet had taken her unaware. Only two doors down from Felix’s apartment where Charlie was. Charlotte set her jaw forward and walked straight by. Forced herself not to pause, not to look up, not to see whether Felix’s lights were on.

  If Paris were watching right now, she shouldn’t lead him directly too Charlie. No need to invite that disaster.

  How did all of this happen? All she’d ever wanted was to reconnect with her family. Repair all that a year of focus on her work—three years in this timeline—had ruined. Now she couldn’t even see her husband—her ex-husband—or her son. Her mentor was dead. She’d alienated herself from the person she’d known all her life. Why was it that the only person who felt close was Bill?

  “You’ll make everything okay,” Leanor had told her. The last words she’d ever spoken to Charlotte, and she got to hear them twice. Would Charlotte really make everything okay? Could she?

  Everything she’d done had only made things worse.

  Why had Leanor run? Why not give some hint? Okay, she was scared of Ana, but didn’t she want this puzzle solved? Wasn’t that how Charlotte was supposed to “make everything okay?” But she’d disappeared. Vanished, despite all of Charlotte’s warnings. So worried for her own damn life that she wouldn’t …

  Charlotte came to a halt midway between Seventy-fifth and Seventy-fourth.

  Leanor hadn’t run from her death. She hadn’t ever cared about Charlotte’s warning.

  What if she wasn’t scared of Paris, but was accepting her fate? Charlotte had called to say that Leanor would die, and she’d died. She’d visited, and Leanor acted oddly, but … What if she was making the future happen, because she knew it would send Charlotte on this path? What if she was making certain that the future happened then, there, because otherwise the past would change? Maybe Charlotte would change, too. If she hadn’t seen Leanor die, hadn’t heard her say, “the Blast,” would they ever have visited it? Ever met Ana for a second, then a third time?

  God, that at least made sense.

  Despite the warm day, a cold pit entered Charlotte’s stomach. If that was true, if Leanor had to die to put her on this path, then what if Leanor always had to die? What if there was no way to keep her alive in the end?

  Charlotte swiveled, facing the blocks it would take to get her home. Turned to a barbershop beside her. Where should she go? What should she do?

  Leanor wanted her to work, to act, and here she was wandering away, moping. She should’ve joined Bill, searched with him. Should’ve left the apartment and found Monroe at the library. She had to do everything possible, so why wasn’t she? Why was she standing on this sidewalk instead of working out the problem with Monroe and Bill?

  She took the first step toward the apartment and faltered. That stack of photos was still going to be there, reminding her of Monroe’s smugness. She finished her step, took another and another. She had to get home.

  Her black shoes ate up the sidewalk. Bypassing Felix’s apartment without pausing, and not because she forced herself to. She was focused. The three of them would put their heads together, would come up with something brilliant. Monroe would see he shouldn’t have been such an ass. Bill would back her up. They’d move forward. Come up with a new plan.

  Even go to the future if they had to.

  Charlotte arrived at their block, her eyes focused on the outer door of the apartment—when Monroe and Bill exited, their bodies close, almost touching. They were smiling, murmuring softly to each other as all the other couples had. Her feet wouldn’t take her any farther forward.

  One of Bill’s hands was settled on the small of Monroe’s back, guiding them across the street, away from Charlotte and down an alley. Toward one of their favorite haunts: a cheese bar.

  Charlotte could’ve called out to them. Told them to stop, drawn them
back in so they could get to work. But they looked so happy, so much more at ease than she could be with Felix. How could she take that away?

  She could join them. Catch up, grab a beer, eat some delicious cheese from Vermont, from Colorado, from a tiny little cave in France. But there was work to be done at home. They’d all failed, like it or not. She let them walk on. Let them have their date. She’d do the work for three of them. She’d have an idea when they got home.

  Now she unfroze. She walked up the street, through the door that had closed only a minute ago, and into their darkened apartment. Some of the gloom had dissipated. She fixed herself a little sandwich and tried to focus. There was some way forward. Some era Bill missed. Some clue from Leanor. But her attention was consumed by the stack Monroe had printed out, still lying on the table.

  She could almost see him at one of the glass panels set into the library’s tables. Roaming through websites at random to ease his mind after a morning of staring at book text. And then discovering this, Bill in hundreds of photos. His smile would’ve been so big, even more devilish when he wasn’t trying to contain it.

  He probably printed out every image, just for the impact. The exact way he would underline a student’s every use of a too-frequent word. And her? He had probably rubbed his hands together and typed in the date. Certain that she’d screwed up, too.

  Charlotte plucked up the stack and began flipping through. As Monroe had promised, every one had Bill in the frame. But this was more than evidence of Bill’s foolishness. It was also a fair representation of all of the Blast’s remaining endpoints throughout time. Pier Fifty-four long after they’d been there, when it was nothing more than a concrete slab for parties. The Statue of Liberty on the day of its unveiling. Dozens of pictures from inside and outside the opulent Plaza Hotel.

  In a way, looking through these photos was like joining both Bill and Monroe. Researching the past and seeing Bill grow, too. She plucked up three photos at random and could almost see the progression. Bill doughy in one, shoulders slumped. His shoulders straighter, his eyes keen in another, and a third where if Charlotte hadn’t seen him now, she wouldn’t have guessed it was the same man. Even the blogger who’d discovered the photo had written Bald Man? below, unsure.

  This was worse, Charlotte realized. This was bad. Bloggers had noted Bill throughout history—what if they saw him on the street? Would these people on the Internet make the impossible leap? Would someone else realize that time travel was possible?

  No, Charlotte told herself, forcing herself to breathe. This would go away. If they—once they—reversed the Blast, then all the attention on these locations would go away. Bill’s indiscretion would go unnoticed. Just as Monroe feared, people would forget to care about history.

  Still, Charlotte paged through. Unable to stop looking at the car crash of Bill’s foolishness. He’d been everywhere.

  The photos ranged from black-and-white, blurry, to the crisp digital of only a few years ago. And, of course, Monroe had printed those out in color—even more expensive when he could’ve just pulled them up on his own tablet.

  Looking at a photo of the Plaza Hotel—with Bill peeking through a window high above—Charlotte felt a strange flop in her stomach. She’d missed something important. She scanned through, but the feeling told her it wasn’t this photo.

  She flipped back to the previous image and pored through, trying to see whatever she’d missed. This photo, like the next, showed the front facade of the Plaza, but the building looked different, smaller. A caption told Charlotte that this was the original Plaza, before it had been rebuilt in 1907, larger, grander, taller. A flag flapped above the entrance, and a few horses and carriages waited for passengers. In the foreground, a young couple—newlyweds, the caption read—stood, about to start their honeymoon. But in the background, the street was full of activity. Horse-drawn carriages passed one another in the streets. Couples walked together along the side of the road. Bill spoke with the doorman in the distance.

  On the side, almost out of frame, a woman with curly white hair watched Bill talk with the doorman. In her hands was a journal and a pencil. She was taking notes. Curious. She didn't wear a dress like every other woman in the photo, but pants and a leather jacket.

  Charlotte leaned into the photo, squinting for clarity. She didn’t breathe; she didn’t blink. Her heart beat a drum in her chest.

  “Leanor?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ANA CHRONISTIC

  JUNE 25, 2023

  Without waiting, Charlotte snatched the photo from the stack and spun to the door. Her hand reached for her purse beside the door, but there was only air.

  “Where … ?” It wasn’t on the table or the couch. She’d definitely dropped it beside the door last night, after Bill returned it. Then she’d had a day with Bill, discussing possible options, and then Monroe had come home.

  Monroe.

  She hadn’t grabbed it on her way out before, too irritated to stop, wanting to make a point of her own with a slammed door and not a moment wasted. She’d left it behind, and Monroe had taken advantage of that.

  Charlotte sprinted out the door, clattered down the stairs, and burst through the door into the early evening. What if they hadn’t gone to the cheese bar at all? If they’d gone through time, she’d never catch up.

  She raced along Lexington Avenue, turned onto Ninety-eighth, and turned once more on Park. They’d be here; even if they’d gone through time, they’d return quickly. She didn’t bother considering what would happen if they’d gone to an unsavory future and been trapped.

  That’d mean too many months building a new astrolabe. That’d mean Paris showing up and taking Charlie. That’d mean her traveling to the future herself, on the off chance that she could find them. Or, worse, interrupting their timeline to stop them, probably preventing this moment from happening.

  Adding more paradoxes to her life.

  Then she heard a loud cackle, resounding through the humid air and down the empty street. Monroe’s laugh, followed by Bill’s low chuckle. She followed their murmurs along Park Avenue and discovered them where she’d hoped they’d be—at the cheese bar, sitting at a tall table that looked out an open window.

  “Charrr!” Monroe said when he spotted her.

  “My astrolabe?”

  “Safe,” Bill said, lifting the bag. “Safe.”

  “Join us, Charrrrrlotte.” Monroe said, patting one of the high bar stools beside them.

  “How are you so drunk?” Right, the astrolabe. They must’ve traveled back, long before she’d seen them, so that they could have a little more time. “I guess you found a surefire way to get the tall table.” The beer-and-cheese bar was a tiny place, always crowded. Monroe loved meeting there, but always insisted on arriving early to get this table. In the summertime, not even noon seemed early enough. With the window open, it was a way to stay inside the bar without dealing with the noise.

  Monroe giggled.

  “Tell me this is the only way you used it,” Charlotte said. “Just to get a table? Not—”

  “We didn’t go to the future,” Bill said. Before him was a simple cheese plate and a single glass of water. Nothing like the variety of glasses around Monroe’s mac and cheese.

  Charlotte grabbed a stool and sat outside, opposite Monroe and Bill. Behind them, as usual, the one long table was crammed with bodies, glasses, and cheese boards. “So where?”

  Monroe gulped, straightened himself, and took a long sip of water. “Damn, I’m drunk.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Bill? You tell ’er.”

  “Monroe had this idea,” Bill said, leaning in and quieting his tone. “That we had another lead. The day he talked to Ana at the Blast, before she vanished. He figured we could go, reveal ourselves to her without being seen by our past selves.”

  “You didn’t—” No, if they’d changed something, Monroe would’ve been more apologetic. He would’ve had to endure the same memory rewrite she had.

  “Di
dn’ change a thing.” Monroe said, but held up a finger. “Just got info.”

  Charlotte watched him, then turned to Bill. “What sort of information?”

  “Ana saw us,” Bill said. “Gave us a brief nod before she vanished.”

  Charlotte still wasn’t seeing the point. What good was a nod? “Did she come back? Appear behind you?”

  Bill shook his head. “No. Monroe was all depressed until we realized—”

  “The dots!” Monroe yelled, holding up a triumphant fist.

  The burns of constellations.

  “She knows we can track them,” Bill said, a smile growing. She was right to leave them be. “Ana saw it at the pier, right? When she was still against us. She must’ve left them as they were as a clue. A way for us to follow her.”

  Charlotte leaned in. This was a lead. A better lead than the fact that Leanor happened to be in the past with Bill, weird though it was. “And? Where did she go?”

  Bill didn’t reply at first. He gave Monroe a glance, his mustache cockeyed. “Um.”

  Monroe tugged at his ponytail before admitting, “The future. Sorry, Char.” His head tilted; he had to press his fingers to keep it sideways, concerned. “But what else do we have?”

  Now it was Charlotte’s turn. Just as he’d trapped her earlier by making sure she’d failed before reveling in that failure, Monroe had asked her the perfect question. She snapped the trap. “One other lead.” Charlotte pulled out the folded piece of paper. Unfolded it patiently. Slid it Monroe’s way.

  “My picture?”

  “Maybe it’s a good thing Bill was so careless.”

  But Monroe shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

  Charlotte pointed to the white-haired woman at the edge taking notes while she watched Bill. Monroe peered closer, blinking rapidly. He wiped his lips, his eyes growing clearer. Sobering in a second. He must not have been as drunk as he was acting. “Is that Leanor?”