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  Never mind his shit, get more facts, I thought, sickened by Robbie’s insinuations about Derrick.

  “What about Franklin, when was the last time you saw him in the city?”

  “What’s with the urgency? You sound like you’re interrogating a witness. Which, at our current rung on the corporate ladder, we won’t be allowed to do for another decade-plus.”

  “When?”

  “Maybe a month or two. Ask your dad, he sees him more often.”

  “Thanks, Rob. And listen.” For only a second hesitation held my tongue. “Please listen to what I’m about to say. If you care about our friendship even a tiny bit, trust me right now, okay? You have to trust me.” I stopped short of saying because your life depends on it. With as much authority as I could muster I ordered, “Quit. Seeing. Christina. Immediately, completely, and no excuses, all right?”

  I disconnected before he could respond; ten seconds later I was on the phone with my father, Jackson Gordon.

  “Hi, hon, how’s your trip? I can’t wait to hear.” Dad sounded exactly like the man I remembered, as smoothly polished as a collector car.

  “Dad, when was the last time you saw Franklin Yancy?” I demanded, dispensing with any form of small talk or pleasantry. “Have you seen him since last night?”

  I sensed my father’s puzzlement. “Franklin Yancy?” he parroted.

  “When, Dad? It’s more important than you could realize.”

  “Tish, what’s going on? You sound panicked.”

  I drew a deliberate breath, thinking fast. “Sorry, it was a long night. I’m fine, just a little hungover. But I’d really like to know.”

  “Well then, I guess it’s been a few weeks. He travels quite extensively, as you know. I believe he’s due home for the benefit dinner next weekend. Lanny and I are planning on attending. You should join us, hon, my treat. You’ve been dying for a new gown and an excuse to wear it, as I recall. You and Lanny can hit the stores.”

  My soul seemed to fold even more tightly upon itself – I sounded so shallow and callous when confronted with these descriptions of my words and actions. Robbie and Dad were describing the person I’d been in danger of becoming before moving to Jalesville for an externship with Al, last summer; the materialistic, narrow-sighted woman who had never met Case Spicer and therefore learned what it meant to be loved absolutely, equally met and cherished in every way. With my free hand I gouged my fingernails into my thigh, digging through the layer of denim.

  “Maybe I will, Dad,” I whispered, near the end of my emotional rope. “Listen, right now I’ve got to go. Milla and I are headed to Landon.”

  “I’m so glad you two are taking some time for each other. Tell…” Dad paused. When his voice came back on the line it was rougher than it had been before, the polish having scraped away in spots. “Tell your mother hello from me.”

  “I will, Dad,” I whispered and then hung up, tossing the phone to the floor mat and bending forward over my knees.

  The road that curved around Flickertail Lake from downtown Landon and out to Shore Leave remained blessedly unchanged. I traded places with Camille for the last two hundred miles and we sat in expectant silence, alone inside both the stuffy interior of the car and the torture chambers of our own thoughts. Plans built to towering heights as I studied the monotony of the interstate beyond the windshield, only to disintegrate in the next second.

  I ruffled without letup through the information we’d gleaned this morning, treating it like a mental stack of research documents. Ruthann did not exist in this timeline but we had reason to believe she continued to exist in 1882. Mom and Blythe had never met. Blythe might not exist. The Rawleys did not exist. Robbie was alive and we worked in Chicago, in the very heart of the enemy’s stronghold. And I had a tentative idea where and when Franklin – Fallon – might next appear.

  Unless things changed dramatically between now and next weekend, I planned to be there in Chicago to confront him.

  You should have killed us, you arrogant bastard. Just you wait. Your cover is about to be blown to bits like nobody’s fucking business. I will tornado through you like nothing you’ve ever known.

  But rage could only sustain me so long; despair pierced the hot wall of anger with its inevitable blades, each sharper than the next.

  Case doesn’t know who you are.

  He didn’t recognize you.

  He’s married to someone else.

  Oh God, I can’t bear it…

  “We’re here,” Camille murmured, refocusing my attention; lost in thought, I’d almost driven past the cafe. It was late afternoon, the lake already shrouded in the gloom of early twilight, the air static and silent, as if we’d entered a chapel. We stared at the white, L-shaped structure housing our family’s business, the cozy space where so very many of our memories were centered, where so much of our lives had taken place; it was currently as dark and silent as a tomb, the lot empty but for a Landon Fire Department work truck and a small Honda.

  I leaned forward, flooded anew with dread. “Where are all the beer signs? All the lights are off. Why aren’t we open? It’s not winter hours anymore.” I peered more closely. “Everything looks so rundown.”

  “This is so fucking scary. What if we can’t pretend?” Camille reached for my hand and I gripped it between both of mine. She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

  “We can do this,” I whispered, with false confidence. “There’s no one but us, Milla, we have to do this. Come on.”

  We approached as cautiously as if about to stage a robbery, cataloguing the familiar – the white siding, the wide windows that had never been adorned by curtains, the wraparound porch which maximized the lake view and was always packed with crowds in the summer months; and the unfamiliar – no cafe lights blazing with welcome, no dogs running to greet us; no hope of reuniting with our little sister after all this time. The only sign of life was the outside light at the top of the steps leading to Aunt Jilly’s apartment above the garage, glowing through the gloom in anticipation of our arrival.

  “It’s because Grandma and Aunt Ellen aren’t here. They died, Milla, even before Gran did.” I couldn’t speak above a whisper, sick at the thought; when had I last hugged my grandma or great aunt? When had I told them how much I loved them and what their influence had meant in my life? Everything around us seemed dead, or in danger of dying; I clung to Camille’s hand, squeezing hard as we hurried past the cafe, whose windows gaped like blank, staring eyes. The mucky sludge of late-winter snow clung to most surfaces while intermittent icicles along the rafters resembled a broken mouth missing teeth.

  We both jumped when the door to Aunt Jilly’s apartment opened.

  “Girls! We didn’t expect you until tomorrow. Come on up!” Our mother beckoned from the top of the stairs, the door propped against her hip, and I felt like a coward as I let Camille take the lead.

  The three of us crowded the narrow entryway as Mom hugged us, one after the other. She wore jeans and a loose sweater, her soft golden hair falling to her collarbones, but she felt shockingly slim in my arms, as though she might snap in two with only minimal pressure. Was she ill? I scrutinized her face as if vital information could be divulged there; her cheekbones created severe angles on her face and her eyes held mine as she offered a smile. But it was a ghost’s smile, a thin reproduction of the genuine one to which I was accustomed.

  Aunt Jilly and Clint emerged from the kitchen, gathering around for greetings and hugs. The little apartment was no different, at least on the surface, except it appeared that Aunt Jilly still lived here; in our real lives, she hadn’t resided in this space for years. We had interrupted an early dinner, hamburgers and fries from the smell. It seemed that Camille and I were about to enter a carnival funhouse, surreal and vaguely threatening, the unknown lurking around every corner; and in one corner a predator crouched, waiting, waiting. Biding his time for the opportune moment to leap forth and strike.

  “You look tired, sweeties, you must
have partied too hard,” Aunt Jilly said, her voice momentarily muffled by my coat as she squeezed me close.

  Despite her petite build, Aunt Jilly had always exuded abundant energy and vivacity. She drew away and my gaze was too intense, I could tell, because her eyebrows drew inward, creating a worried crease above her nose. She wore wool socks, jeans, and a thick sweater, her basic winter uniform, but I was not imagining the subtle difference – as if the invisible aura surrounding her had been dimmed or muddied. Rather than sparking with vitality, she appeared subdued. Her golden hair was cut short and spiky, the way she’d kept it ever since her first husband, Christopher Henriksen, had been killed in a snowmobiling accident.

  A shiver cut at my spine – what if Chris was alive in this timeline? What if he hadn’t died that winter night when Clint was a baby? Though we hadn’t confirmed it, mounting evidence suggested that in this life Aunt Jilly was not married to Justin Miller. And that meant no Rae, Riley, or Zoe, their three children. Further, Blythe’s absence meant no Matthew and Nathaniel, my younger half-brothers. Clint wrapped me in a bear hug and I clung to my tall, strong cousin, who smelled like cooking oil and this morning’s dose of cologne. He squeezed me like an accordion, warding off the worst of my trembling; knuckling my scalp, he said, “Glad I caught you guys. I’m on shift this evening.”

  I looked up at him, a thousand questions on my tongue.

  “At the fire station?” Camille sidestepped me to ask. Her eyes were wide and frightened and I knew she was dying to ask if Mathias was working tonight – he was also a part-time volunteer firefighter. Camille and I both knew she would respond no less intensely to Mathias than I had to Case, were their paths to cross, and we had no real idea in what condition Mathias might exist in this life. If he existed at all; neither of us had been successful at guessing the pin code on the second phone, therefore unable to scroll through Camille’s current list of contacts.

  I tucked hair behind my ears, shedding my coat, struggling to maintain a casual air as I guided Clint toward the kitchen before he could answer Camille. Keeping my voice low, I asked him, “Does Mathias Carter still work with you, Clinty?”

  “Huh?” Clint grabbed a tote bag from the corner, totally oblivious.

  “You know, Bull’s son…” I gambled on the chance that Clint would indeed know Bull.

  “Oh, yeah, right. I don’t think he’s worked at the fire station since he was a teenager, like way before my time. I haven’t seen him since last summer when his family was up here visiting.”

  Camille, on our heels, had overhead.

  Shit, shit, shit. Fuck.

  “His family?” she parroted, unmistakable panic riding high in her voice now.

  Do something, I thought. But other than knocking her out to avoid hearing Clint’s response, no useful ideas sprang to mind.

  Camille grabbed Clint’s left elbow in a two-handed death grip, preventing his forward motion as she demanded, “His family?”

  Clint seemed vaguely startled at her intensity but he answered gamely enough, with a brief shrug. “Yeah, his wife and kids. He lives somewhere in the Twin Cities. Has since college.”

  Camille turned away and disappeared down the hall leading to the bathroom without another word.

  Clint watched her go with surprise rolling from him in waves. “What’s with her?”

  “You girls want something to eat?” Mom asked, entering the kitchen and gesturing at the table, where three plates of half-eaten food shared the surface with a bowl of salad and bottles of condiments. “I’m sure you’re starved. I can fry up a few more burgers.”

  “No, we already ate.” I leaned backward against the counter, radiating anxiety with all the subtly of a radio tower; from what I could gather, Mom and Aunt Jilly lived here together. “You two go ahead and finish up.” I crossed my arms, applying pressure to my leaping innards. Another minute of this and Mom and Aunt Jilly would know something was off. Way, way the hell off.

  “I gotta run,” Clint said, hefting the tote over his wide shoulder as he headed for the door. “See you guys later!”

  Aunt Jilly reclaimed her chair and her drink. “What will it take to get you to stay here permanently, too, Tish?”

  I acted as though I knew what she meant, nodding encouragingly.

  Mom picked up the conversational ball. “I’m so glad Camille got hired at the high school. I put in a word for her the second I heard there was a position. They’ve needed a history teacher since Delores Meeker had a stroke last month.” She smiled at Aunt Jilly. “Mrs. Meeker was old when we had her for history, so it’s no wonder…”

  Camille taught history? I glanced toward the hall in search of her, but no sign; I’d heard the bathroom door close, but nothing else. I remembered suddenly that she and Mathias had once lived together in this apartment, along with Millie Jo, before their wedding.

  “Why isn’t the cafe open?” I blurted. “We’re not on winter hours anymore, are we?”

  Mom and Aunt Jilly both looked my way, with identical expressions of surprise.

  “Are we?” I persisted.

  “Hon, we haven’t kept winter hours in years.” Mom searched my eyes and I tried not to cringe at her haggard appearance. Her skin was cast in typical late-winter pallor but it was much more than that – there was no light in her eyes. Extreme thinness had taken a toll on her beautiful face, exaggerating its planes and angles. She murmured, “You must be tired.”

  I couldn’t shut up. “But where does everyone go for coffee all winter? The coffee at Eddie’s is a joke. What about Dodge?” I couldn’t imagine a winter morning without Dodge Miller, Justin’s dad and the closest thing to a true grandfather I’d ever known, stopping out for coffee on the way to his job at the filling station.

  I knew immediately I’d said the wrong thing.

  Aunt Jilly spoke first, setting aside her glass. “Tish, what’s going on? What are you talking about?”

  Concern etching her forehead, Mom adopted a tone I hadn’t heard since childhood. “Tish, sweetie, Dodge hasn’t lived in Landon in years. He left town over twenty years ago.”

  My stomach acid seemed to be forming clots as they exchanged the sort of sisterly glance I knew down to my bones, the sort that encompasses an entire conversation, a deep, instantaneous communication.

  “But what about Justin? Where does he work? What about their service station?” Tears built, stinging my eyes. I wanted to scream, What about Ruthann? You don’t even know Ruthann!

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway and even before she appeared I sensed Camille’s intent.

  “Tish.” Her quiet voice was an unswerving command and I could do nothing but nod. Hushed expectancy swelled between Mom and Aunt Jilly as they waited for Camille to continue speaking. Her eyes burned in her drawn face as she said, “We can’t keep this secret.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Landon, MN - March, 2014

  A HORRIBLE FEW DAYS HAD DRIFTED PAST, CASTING US upon the desolate bank of Wednesday, the nineteenth of March.

  I sat at booth five in the cafe, chin in hand, staring at the cheerless sight of a parking lot bordered by dirty snow; the streetlight had just blinked out as dawn smeared ashen light across the gray eastern slope of sky. Today was supposed to have been the first time we faced off with Derrick Yancy in court in regards to the land dispute he’d put into play last November. Those events seemed to have occurred more than a century ago, ridiculous, trifling concerns in light of the odds we now faced. I had not eaten since noon yesterday, and retained no real desire to sustain myself; at night I lay huddled near Camille in the bedroom we’d shared with Ruthann in our younger years, the two of us crammed side by side in a twin bed. Feeling each other’s warmth was the only way we had survived the past three nights.

  Mom and Aunt Jilly – and Clint, later that first night, once he was home and able to hear the story – did not know what to think of Sunday night’s unabridged disclosure of information. The shock we’d dumped over their heads like so m
any tons of scalding water had yet to settle. Aunt Jilly was the most receptive and I thanked all the powers that be for her open-mindedness; at least that detail had not been altered.

  “Tell us everything,” she insisted.

  And we had.

  When we spoke of how she was happily wed to Justin Miller in the life we remembered, Aunt Jilly issued a strangled cry, the sound of a sliced throat. She pressed the side of one fist to her pale lips and began sobbing.

  “Oh my God.” Mom went to her side and bracketed her shoulders. “Jillian, it’s like your dreams.”

  “What do you mean?” I demanded, kneeling before my aunt, resting my touch on her kneecaps. For long moments she could do nothing but weep; when she lifted her face from behind her palms, her blue eyes blazed with awareness. I tightened my hold on her knees.

  She whispered. “I thought…I thought I was crazy. Not long after Chris died, I started having dreams about Justin. And later, about our family. It was so real. So very real.”

  “Where is Justin now? Is he in Landon?”

  Aunt Jilly nodded, tears seeping down her cheeks.

  Mom answered for her. “Dodge sold the filling station before he left Landon. Justin lives in town but works as a mechanic over in Bemidji. He’s still married to Aubrey. They’ve been married since high school.”

  “In this other life, Justin and I have children, don’t we?” Aunt Jilly whispered.

  “Yes, you have two girls and a boy, plus Clint.” I studied her stunned, expressive eyes. “This only confirms what we know, that our real lives are not this one. Not this timeline. This is some horrible offshoot that we have to reverse. Your intuition has obviously been trying to tell you that, through your dreams.”

  Other revelations proved just as torturous.

  Grandma and Aunt Ellen’s car accident.

  Ruthann’s absence.