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  I felt gutted, filleted, ripped stem to stern.

  He stopped with about two feet of space separating our bodies.

  “You must be the new schoolteacher.” He offered his right hand. “Mathias Carter.”

  Destroyed by our proximity, pummeled by the sight and sound, the scent of this man I had loved all through time, I stood silent and immobile. If I touched him, I would lose my tenuous composure. I saw the teasing glint in his eyes; because I hadn’t moved, he leaned a fraction closer and engulfed my right hand within his own. The shock of the contact almost hurt. I watched, helpless, as his grin was replaced by a sudden sense of bewilderment, which he quickly disguised with a genial running commentary.

  “You’re the new history teacher, Mom was saying. You’re taking over for Mrs. Meeker, huh? She was ancient when I had her in junior high so I can’t imagine the poor woman now. She always showed us these old black and white movies on the film projector…”

  Our hands remained joined in midair and our real lives, the true timeline, seemed so close that a breath could pierce the barrier.

  “Yes,” I managed to whisper.

  “I’ve always loved history, too.” Warming to the subject, Mathias indicated the rest of the attic with his free hand. “And there’s a ton of it up here, as you can see.” His dimple flashed as he grinned anew. “I don’t mean to pry, but you haven’t told me your name.”

  Heat inundated my neck, climbing my face. “Camille –” I choked back the surname that had been mine for many years – Carter – and stumbled, “Gordon.”

  “Camille,” he repeated slowly, as though tasting the syllables. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  So polite, so courteous, every word he spoke a new puncture wound to my heart. Aching and distraught, I withdrew my hand. I thought of what Tish had endured in Jalesville, seeing Case with Lynnette, and found a measure of space to be grateful that Suzy had not accompanied Mathias.

  I had almost forgotten Tina until she stepped into my field of view; I recognized the compassion beneath the statement as she softly hinted, “Matty, we’re kinda busy up here.”

  But he was not to be deterred; radiating enthusiasm, he asked, “Can I help you guys? What are you looking for?” He shed his flannel in one easy motion, tossing it upon a tattered loveseat. “Something in particular?”

  It was beyond foolish to be near him this way. I knew I should go but I couldn’t bear to leave just yet; besides, there were dozens of unexplored boxes. My chest rose and fell with a deep breath and I drew upon a small reservoir of courage. “We’re looking for anything to do with your first ancestors here in Minnesota. I think there’s some sort of connection between the Davises and the Carters as far back as the nineteenth century. Your parents were kind enough to let me look through your attic.”

  “Are you kidding? If Dad was here, he’d be on his knees right beside you.” Eager and excited, Mathias resembled our boys. “What have you guys found?”

  “Not much from the nineteenth century,” I admitted, returning to the trunk I’d abandoned.

  The phone in the kitchen rang; seconds later Diana called, “Tina, it’s Sam!”

  Tina hesitated before heading downstairs; she had sworn herself to secrecy and I had promised not to reveal anything to Mathias – at least, not yet. I tried to send her a silent message that I was all right.

  Mathias grabbed an unopened box and hunkered down right beside me. “Dad said we’d get started over at the Lodge after lunch, we’re stripping out the floors in the old ballroom, but I’m all yours until then.”

  Oh God, don’t look at him…

  Instead of opening the box Mathias leaned closer to me, perusing my hair.

  Incorrigible, I thought, slammed backward to the first week we’d known one another. Even though his gaze was nearly palpable I refused to look his way; the inability to touch him was too painful.

  “There’s cobwebs in your hair,” he observed and I almost smiled; he was as forthright as ever.

  “I’m sure there’s plenty of them.” My voice was reedy with tension and need.

  He reached and gently grasped a sticky skein, elongating one of my curls like uncoiling a wire. He stretched until it was almost fully extended before letting it spring back, next rubbing together his fingertips to shed the cobweb.

  “That was so cool! Is your hair naturally curly?”

  Our first winter as a couple and without a place of our own, we had often made love in Bull’s ice-fishing shack out on Flickertail Lake. The cramped, chilly space became our blissful private heaven; laughing as we struggled to free ourselves from inhibiting winter garments, the threat of getting caught only stimulating the urgent desire, knocking over coffee mugs and sling chairs in our need to come together. Memories swarmed, overpowering and undeniable; I could kneel here and pretend I didn’t know this man but it did not change the truth. To be near him and feign indifference was a cruelty too bizarre to comprehend.

  “It is,” I muttered, referring to my hair, still refusing to look at him.

  He proceeded to pepper me with questions, exactly as he had when we first met. I kept my answers succinct at first but familiarity, the sum total of our years together, began to win out and before I knew it I was outright flirting with him. I was flirting with my husband, the father of my children, who was currently married to another woman. I knew he sensed the connection that bound us, even if he couldn’t explain why. We kept finding little excuses to briefly touch each other. He’d nudge my arm or touch my wrist to gain my attention; I pretended to find a smudge of dust on his shoulder, just so I could brush it away.

  “Your family owns Shore Leave, right? But you’re from Chicago?”

  “What made you decide to move here from the city?”

  “How’d you decide to major in history?”

  “Are you planning to live at Shore Leave or in the apartments by the co-op? My friend Skid Erickson lives there with his girlfriend. It’s a nice place.”

  “Have you seen the northern lights up here? They are something else.” He made this comment as he extracted yet another cobweb from my hair, completely at ease.

  “Do you mind?” I pretended to gripe, ducking away.

  “Sorry,” he said, dimple flashing, not truly sorry at all. His grin widened. “There’s dirt on your cheek.”

  There was also a pile of newspapers on my lap; I sat cross-legged, facing him as I riffled carefully through a stack of faded newsprint, ancient editions of The Landon Sentinel. I looked up at this comment and my heart struck a solid blow to my breastbone.

  His smile faded like smoke in a sudden breeze.

  “What?” I whispered.

  Dispensing with small talk, he spoke with sudden seriousness. “You’ll think I’m crazy, but I swear we’ve met before today.”

  I returned my attention at once to my lap. “I don’t think so.”

  He resituated, resting one forearm on a bent knee, focusing his full intensity upon me while I tried not to squirm. “Are you sure?”

  Goddammit, don’t do this to me, Carter.

  I refused to look at him. And then something completely different caught my eye – a typewritten name in a slim column.

  “Look!” I cried, angling the paper toward him, indicating with my index finger. “Look right there.”

  “‘Edward Tilson,’” he read. “Do you know him?”

  “Oh my God,” I breathed, blood coursing as I flipped to the front page of the three-page paper, seeking the publication date. Sunday, May 20, 1906.

  Mathias used his shoulder to gently nudge mine. “Who is he?”

  I had no answer yet, reading intently, with mounting purpose. An obituary, I realized, detailing the life of a ninety-nine year old doctor named Edward Tilson; a man beloved by the entire county according to the subsequent paragraphs beneath a grainy image.

  Tilson…

  It can’t be a coincidence.

  “‘A resident of the area since 1869, Dr. Tilson, a veteran of
the War Between the States, was proceeded in death by his wife, Adeline Tilson, an infant daughter, and four sons, also veterans. Three of Dr. Tilson’s sons, Justus, Amon, and Bridger, died in the service of their country, while his eldest, Blythe, was killed in 1882.’” I looked over at Mathias, stunned by this revelation. He waited with eyebrows raised, surprised by my obvious agitation over these long-ago deaths.

  Blythe Tilson. Oh, my God…

  At least one of Blythe’s ancestors had lived in Landon during the nineteenth century.

  “Holy shit,” I whispered, lightheaded with astonishment, resting my left thumb against my lips as I reread the line about Dr. Tilson’s eldest son, killed in 1882. Ruthann was in 1882. I couldn’t process this wealth of information quickly enough. It couldn’t be a coincidence. “Holy shit, do you know what this means?!”

  “I’m dying to know what this means,” Mathias said. “You have no idea.”

  I read the remainder of the obituary, hawk-eyed for more information. Dr. Tilson was survived by his nephew, Clinton Clemens, his niece, Rebecca Carter, and –

  “Look!” I exclaimed again, tears bulging along my lower eyelids without my consent; it was inevitable. Mathias couldn’t begin to know the depth of my emotional investment.

  “I’m looking, I promise.” Mathias scooted even closer; we almost clocked heads.

  “It’s Malcolm,” I breathed, composure crumbling fast. “And Rebecca’s husband is Boyd Carter. Oh God, if only we’d found this after we found Malcolm’s picture and his Christmas Eve telegram, Thias. To think it’s been in your attic this whole time. Malcolm lived to 1906…” Tears dripped from my chin, creating a rainstorm of damp dots on the newspaper; I scrubbed at my face, choking back sobs.

  “What did you call me, just now?” Mathias spoke with a dead-serious tone and I heard his confusion, the sincerity of his desire to understand more than I was currently telling him.

  I froze, unable to dredge up an answer; in our real lives, it was my name for him.

  “Who’s Malcolm? What does he mean to you?” Mathias persisted, eyes tracking all over my face, seeking answers. “You’re crying about this. What am I missing here?”

  My choices diminished to one; I had to leave – now.

  I shifted to stand but Mathias caught my elbow. “Please, Camille,” he begged, hoarse with mounting emotion; I was all but done in by the sound of my name on his lips. “Don’t go. Tell me what this is about. It’s something important, isn’t it?”

  I pulled away, unable to brave his staggered gaze as I asked, “Can I keep this newspaper?”

  He studied me with a pulse pounding in his throat; I restrained the absolute need to collapse against his powerful chest and cling. I despised running away like this but I’d done too much damage already. He said, “Of course. But can you at least tell me what this is about? I don’t understand…”

  “No,” I whispered. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  I fled before he could say another word.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chicago, IL - March, 2014

  SATURDAY EVENING CREPT AROUND.

  I’d existed nearly a week in this repulsive offshoot timeline, a series of days which inched past my nose, creating the sickening sensation that more than a century had actually elapsed. Though I could have ventured to my “office” at Turnbull and Hinckley on Friday I chose instead to hide out at Dad’s, feigning illness. Derrick’s warning had petrified me in more ways than one; I was simultaneously terrified and, in essence, frozen solid. I made Robbie promise to hold off on any further investigative work and lay low. I told him I would regroup and keep him posted on anything I discovered. He had agreed to escort me to the benefit dinner downtown, much to Dad’s delight; he adored Robbie. I had not revealed a thing to my father as of yet.

  Emotionally trampled, tripped up by indecision and a maddening lack of choices, I spent Friday huddled in bed, politely declining Lanny’s invitation to join her for a manicure, then spending hours scrolling obsessively through every last online image or mention I could find of Case; in this timeline, without the encouraging presence of the Rawleys, he had not spent time pursuing his music. I didn’t bathe or eat; I could hardly rally the energy to shuffle to my small, private bathroom, battling an increasing sense of hopelessness. The inevitability of relenting to this timeline hovered so near I could feel its damp breath.

  When I saw Camille’s name flash across my phone late Friday afternoon, I debated not answering – but I couldn’t leave her hanging.

  “Hey,” I whispered.

  “I found something!” Her voice was a strange mixture of strong emotion, wobbling with intensity as she rushed to explain. “I spent this morning in the attic at the Carters’ and found an old Landon Sentinel with an obituary –”

  “Oh God, whose?” I cried, flying from beneath the covers, heartrate spiking.

  “No one we know, don’t worry. Here, I’ll pull over to read it to you.” She did, and I leaned forward in my desire to absorb her every word.

  “Who wrote it?” I demanded.

  “Get this, Tish, a woman named Lorissa Davis. I’m almost certain she’s the ‘Lorie’ mentioned in the list of Edward Tilson’s survivors and no doubt the same person Malcolm was writing to in 1876. Lorie was our ancestor. And she knew Blythe’s ancestor.”

  “Breathe,” I ordered, clutching the phone with both hands, startled by the tone of my sister’s voice; she sounded about three seconds from hysteria. Something else occurred to me. “You saw Mathias, didn’t you? Oh, Milla, I’m sorry…”

  Her sudden, abject sobs were the only confirmation I needed.

  “Shit, don’t try to drive for a minute, okay? Stay where you are. I’m so sorry.”

  “I couldn’t tell him the truth, Tish. Oh God, he has twins…it hurts so much…”

  “I know, I really do.” The bridge of my nose stung just listening to her pain.

  After a minute she was able to draw several ragged breaths. “I just left their house, I’m still shaking.”

  “It’s okay. Let’s consider this information.” For the first time since speaking with Derrick, I experienced a small sense of control. “First, Blythe’s ancestor, Edward Tilson, lived in Minnesota. Second, he lived with the Carters and knew the Davises. What’s more, none of his children lived beyond him. This doctor was the last Tilson.” The excitement of closing in on key details rose like an old friend in my chest. “Edward wasn’t supposed to be the last Tilson, because otherwise the Blythe we know would never have existed.”

  “And Edward’s son, nineteenth-century Blythe, died in 1882! That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “He didn’t just die, he was ‘killed’ it said,” I reminded her, twining a curl around my index finger until it cut off the blood supply at the tip. “Fallon killed him, I’m sure of it.” The simple act of speaking Fallon’s name aloud set the hairs on my nape standing on end; my gaze spanned the circumference of my bedroom, unpleasantly gloomy in the late-afternoon light. It was too quiet, the air holding its breath, and a shiver blazed over my scalp – driven by instinct I dropped the phone to grab the tall, slender brass lamp on my nightstand, yanking its cord from the wall. Clutching it like a weapon I leaped into the hallway, fully prepared to split Fallon Yancy’s head like an overripe watermelon.

  The hall was empty but I race-walked room to room anyway, clicking every light fixture into existence.

  Camille’s voice demanded my attention from the abandoned phone. “Tish, what are you doing?!”

  “It’s all right, I just had a bad feeling,” I explained when I was back on the line, breathless with exertion.

  “Are you coming home now?” she asked.

  “I have the benefit dinner tomorrow night, remember?”

  “Don’t go. Talk about bad feelings!”

  “I have to. Fallon might show up. I can’t lose this chance to confront him.”

  “Tish, goddammit! He’s dangerous. Have you told Dad anything?”

&n
bsp; “No,” I admitted. Thank God I hadn’t revealed any of what Derrick said Thursday evening; Camille’s next move would include showing up to drag me home by the ear.

  “Please just come back to Landon.”

  “Sunday,” I promised.

  With thirty minutes to spare before Robbie arrived on Saturday evening, I examined my reflection in the full-length mirror on my bedroom closet. The closet contained rows of designer outfits and I recognized that if I was to appear at a gala such as tonight’s, an event commanding something like a thousand dollars a plate, suitable attire was required. And so I’d bathed, applied make-up, and fastened diamond studs in my ears. After consulting with Lanny, who would be appalled if our outfits clashed, I chose a simple floor-length gown, so deep a purple it almost appeared black. One of my arms was left bare and I asked Dad to help me with the clasp of a simple tennis bracelet I found on my dresser.

  “You look lovely, honey,” he said, kissing my temple with paternal pride.

  “Are you sure you want to leave your hair down?” Lanny inquired, scanning me from hairline to hem with a critical eye. She was impeccable in a smoky lavender frock with a plunging, crystal-encrusted neckline. Her dark hair was arranged atop her head, likely in part to feature her glittery diamond-and-amethyst chandeliers. I wanted to ask her if she knew her husband spent a fair amount of his work week engaging in illicit sex with another woman.

  Dad, you unbelievable asshole, I thought, avoiding his eye as he held Lanny’s coat.