"So her dad basically got her the job at Annum Guard?"

Abe nods again. "Yep."

"But that doesn't make any sense. Why? And that doesn't explain why she changed her name to Jane Bonner."

"There's something else. We found her file. Seems that after college, Marie bounced around jobs for a few years, but then eight years ago, she got a new position." He looks at me, like he wants me to say something.

"Um, okay . . ."

"Working on thenSenator Caldwell's reelection campaign."

"The vice president?" I practically shout, then duck my head. A group of boys playing a game with a stick and a thin wooden wheel are staring at me. And I don't know why I'm so surprised by this revelation. I mean, I saw at the party that the VP and Bonner have known each other a while, but I find it hard to believe that they worked together. Caroline Caldwell looked like she wanted to knife Bonner at Leighton's house. Then I remember how Joe Caldwell ogled her, and something clicks.

Was Bonner involved with Joe at some point? Hang on, is that why Caroline Caldwell asked me to exercise discretion? She thought there was a chance I'd find out about it, and she didn't want it going public?

"Vice President Caldwell ruined Bonner's reputation, didn't she?" I ask Abe.

"Obliterated it with the force of an atomic bomb is a more accurate description."

I look at the second clipping. It's a long article.

"Do you remember that big, campaign finance scandal when we were in, like, seventh grade?" Abe asks.

"No." What seventh grader remembers something like that? Besides Abe. He grew up in a family where CNN and PBS were the only TV stations allowed and where NPR was a constant on the car radio. We've played this "Do you remember . . . ?" game a lot. I always lose. My mom likes reality TV and old-school Madonna.

"Anyway, Marie took the fall. She admitted to taking money from corporations that had hidden their ident.i.ties to give more than they're legally allowed. There was a special prosecutor a.s.signed. Caldwell testified against Marie, and after that, Marie took a plea deal." He pauses. "She went to prison, Mandy."

My mouth falls open.

"Marie served eighteen months. When she got out she stayed low for a while, but then, like a year ago, she popped back up on the radar screen as Jane Bonner."

"How did she get the Annum Guard appointment with that kind of past?"

"Think about it. She's the perfect lackey to a corrupt government official. Someone on the straight and narrow isn't exactly going to be lining up for that job. Howe needed someone he could use, someone he could manipulate. Someone who wouldn't go digging into Eagle. Red thinks she must have panicked when we started disappearing and was going to turn on Howe, and that's why . . . well, they got to her."

It all makes sense, but something is still nagging me. "Howe is XP then?"

"All signs point to him, yeah."

"But I saw a man with Bonner. The man who took her. I only saw the back of him, but it wasn't Howe. This man was much bigger, much bulkier."

Abe shrugs. "It was probably someone who works for Howe."

I hand Abe the clippings and stand. "So now we need evidence."

"We need evidence," Abe echoes.

"Has the bug picked up anything on Mike?"

"Nothing much. A few things we're looking into, but so far, nothing we can use."

I pause for a second to gather my nerves. "And where are you and I on the Mike front?" I'm trying to keep things professional, but I know I probably just sound awkward.

He sighs. "Obviously, I don't like knowing that you kissed him-he kissed you-whatever. But unless you say otherwise, I'm going to a.s.sume that whatever you did, you did out of necessity in order to plant the bug."

"I'm not going to say otherwise." Even if the truth is somewhere on the gray spectrum.

"Then you and I are fine," Abe says.

I interlace my fingers in his, and this time he squeezes them back.

We start walking toward the train station in town. "I blew the first XP mission. Blackout was on the train."

Abe gasps. "And you got away?"

"Barely. It was only one person." I hesitate. "Tyler Fertig. One of us."

"We have to tell someone. We have to warn the others."

"I know."

"Let's go back now."

I shake my head. "I'm sure we're going to run into him again on the next XP mission . . . which is the Boston Strangler." I hear the edge in my voice. I don't know why this one is creeping me out so much. I've had plenty of training running around in dark warehouses at Peel, unsure of what dangers lurked ahead. I guess I've just always found the idea of killers who prey on victims like they're hunting animals to be horrifying. I had nightmares for a solid month when we studied serial killer patterns at Peel.

"We can take Tyler down on that mission, just us," I say.

"But what about the other blackout member? Violet said there were two."

"I think we can handle it. I just . . . I don't want to put anyone else at risk. You and I are the best trained to handle combat situations. Yellow would be useless right now. Violet is . . . not the best with these situations." I remember how she nearly chickened out on the Gardner mission, which now seems like a lifetime ago. "And I just don't trust Green enough to let him in on this. But you . . ." I reach out and squeeze his hand. "You, I trust."

Abe purses his lips together for a moment. "I think you're wrong, Mandy. And I think you're selling everyone else short. The smart thing is to go back now and get more help. Think with your head, not your heart."

A little voice nags me that Abe's right, that we'd be much better equipped to handle the blackout squad if we're at our full numbers. But then I think of losing Yellow or Violet or even Green . . . I can handle myself. Abe has a black belt.

"Abey, I really think it should just be us."

Abe is silent, but then he blows out a breath and nods. "Okay. We'll do it together. But what in the world does XP have to do with a serial killer?"

"I have no idea, but whatever it is, it can't be good. Especially considering the first mission-the one I abandoned-was the a.s.sa.s.sination of Abraham Lincoln."

What if XP is a murderer? And not like my old headmaster or-I hate that my mind goes there-like my dad. Not someone who kills for money. No, someone who stalks his prey. Someone who kills just to kill. Someone who gets off on the psychological mind games.

I shudder again.

"Since Vaughn worked for XP, that means XP killed two presidents?" Abe says.

"I don't know. I don't know if we'll ever know."

"What's the third mission? Do I even want to know?"

I run a hand through my messy hair. "Probably not. But the third mission is the Cuban Missile Crisis."

"Okay? Why are you saying it like that-like you know something I don't?"

"Because." I pause. "That night at your grandparents' house? Ariel told me about the very first mission he went on. Annum Guard's very first mission ever. It was the Cuban Missile Crisis. It wasn't just a crisis. We dropped a bomb. Moscow retaliated. Fifteen million people died. But Ariel-he stopped it. He saved all of us."

"What?" Abe's voice is barely a whisper.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before."

Abe shakes his head. "This doesn't make any sense. How is the third mission the Cuban Missile Crisis? If what you told me is true, then my grandfather was-in on it? No. Someone messed with it later? I don't understand." I can see him thinking, puzzling through the same things I am. Which is to say he has a jumble of thoughts running together in his head like a herd of sheep fleeing a dog. He shakes his head, like this will make all of the thoughts fly out of his brain.

"So, Boston then?" I say.

He nods silently.

There's a train heading back into the city, but neither Abe nor I have the correct money.

"We either steal, which is risky as well as illegal, or we project to 1962, which is where we have to go anyway," I say. "I've got plenty of money for 1962."

"Sounds like you've made up your mind there already, cowboy."

"Please don't ever call me cowboy again."

Abe laughs. It's warm, a beam of light that shines on me, on him, on us. We're okay. Just like I knew we would be. I interlace my fingers with his, and he squeezes my hand. "What's the date we're going to?"

"Hang on." I dig the printout from the bag and unfold it, then I let go of Abe's hand to flip to the second page. There's really not much to go on, just the date and location of the mission. "August 25, 1962. We're going to be in the Back Bay."

"What time of day?"

"Um"-I look again-"just after ten thirty p.m."

"So let's go back in the morning. That will give us plenty of time to get to Boston."

We duck inside the station bathrooms to project. I lock myself into the farthest stall and hold my breath. I pray for two things. One, that this is still a bathroom in 1962, and two, that I'm not about to project on top of some woman doing her business thirty-four years from now.

I slam my watch face shut and fly up. My limbs stretch and pop and burn, and I want to scream. A few seconds later, I land in the same spot and finally let out my breath and gasp for air.

I'm in a bathroom. An unoccupied bathroom. A lucky break. Of course, it is six in the morning. I take a second to contemplate changing into that hideous polyester jumpsuit from the seventies that's in my bag but decide against it. It's ten years from being in style. We'll deal with clothing in Boston.

The platform is outside, and there's a slight morning chill in the air, but I find it familiar and rea.s.suring. Abe and I park ourselves on a bench. It's Sat.u.r.day, so the train isn't running that often.

I scoot close to Abe so that our legs are touching. He doesn't tense or move away. "I have to warn you that I have no idea what we're in for. According to what I found online, there was no murder on August 25. At least not one attributed to the Strangler."

"So either XP murdered someone and hoped it would be pinned on the Strangler, or he . . . saved one of the victims?"

I shrug. "Those seem to be the only two options. I guess we'll find out."

There's a high-pitched wail of metal against metal as the commuter train locks its brakes and slides into the station. I stuff the printout back into the bag, then Abe and I climb aboard and find seats next to each other. It's not that hard. This early, there's only one other person on the train. An old woman so short her legs don't touch the floor. She has a blue kerchief tied around her head and two large shopping bags piled haphazardly on the seat next to her. She eyes my dress as Abe and I walk past her.

It's a short ride into Boston. They've made some improvements on train speed since 1865. The train drops us at the Back Bay station, which in true Boston fashion technically is in the South End, not the Back Bay. We need to get out of these clothes-people stare at us left and right-but it's still too early for any shops to be open. So we head for 426 Marlborough Street to scope it out. It's at the very far end of the Back Bay, just a hop, skip, and jump on the green line from the Ma.s.s. Ave. T stop. We stare at the three-story brownstone with shiny, black French doors. The building looks like the hundreds of others that line the streets of the Back Bay. We're at the less expensive end of a very expensive neighborhood. The street seems just a little dirtier down here, the brownstones not quite as stately. Even so, there's no way I could afford to live here. Like, ever. Not on my government salary. Well, former government salary.

We have a lot of time to waste and not much preparation to do for tonight's mission-I mean, how can we prepare for something when we have no idea what to expect?-so Abe and I wander the city.

As soon as the stores open, we head into Jordan Marsh, the same downtown department store where Yellow and I bought clothes during our last foray into this decade. Walking through the double gla.s.s doors into the cosmetics section-waving off a slender redhead armed with a spray perfume bottle-gives me a wicked sense of dej vu.

The sixties are becoming familiar to me. I've spent a lot of time here now. But it's not a good familiarity. It's one that sets me on edge. Like a visit to a relative you don't really like. A trip you have to endure. This time period brings back memories of death and deceit, lies and corruption.

I pick out a knee-length, kelly-green, A-line dress with thin white stripes across the bodice. It costs nine dollars, which makes me laugh. Nine bucks will buy me a pair of socks and some hair ties in present-day Boston. I drop the duffel bag below the counter, out of the sales clerk's view, and dig through the stacks of twenties. I definitely took too much money.

I change in a dressing room and then find Abe, who's now in a blue striped shirt and light-brown pants that are way tighter than any he owns in the present. We venture outside and stroll around, mostly in a comfortable silence. We pa.s.s a woman dressed in black pants that end at her ankles, a cropped silver jacket, and oversize sungla.s.ses. She has dark, wavy hair, just like my mom, and she has an artist's portfolio tucked under her arm. She slips into a gallery on Newbury Street.

She's like the artist mother I always dreamed of. The one with an organized studio and a stable life. Not the manipulative, irrational mess I wound up with.

I'm done.

I don't think I realized it until right this second, but I'm done. No more voice mails, no more begging. If my mom isn't going to change, when we both know she can, I have to walk away, for me.

You have to come first sometimes.

"What about this one?" Abe says.

"Huh?"

He points at a brownstone on the corner of Comm. Ave. and Clarendon Street. "We could live here someday. Top floor, maybe? Something with two bedrooms? Enough room for you and me and baby you-and-me?"

I snort. It's nice to hear Abe talk about the future, but this is the first time he's ever mentioned kids. "Yeah, I'm not having kids."

Abe blinks. "I wasn't talking about right now."

"I know. And I'm talking about ever."

"You don't want children . . . ever?"

"Nope," I say. I've never felt very motherly. When other little girls my age were tucking dolls into play cribs or feeding them with those weird bottles that drain into nothingness when you tip them over, I was busy on the monkey bars. I don't know if it's a nature or nurture thing. Both, I guess?

I refuse to let myself think of my mom anymore. I don't have time for that distraction. If she's not going to get the help she needs, I have to say good-bye. I've been stuck on a constant, looping roller coaster, and it's time to get off, to plant my feet on solid ground.

Focus. It's time to focus. I look at Abe, and there's an expression on his face I've never seen. It's not quite his mad face, not quite his disappointed face. "I'm just being honest," I say. "Besides, I can't see wanting to bring a child into this completely messed up world. And I don't exactly have the tools to teach that kid how to thrive. I'd mess up a kid worse than the world would."

Abe doesn't say anything for a while, and I start panicking a little. What if this is a deal breaker for him?

"There's still plenty of time for you to change your mind," he finally says, and I choose to let the conversation drop. It would take a lot for me ever to change my mind, but this isn't the time or the place for that debate. We have a job to do. We need to get into professional mode.

It's August in New England, so night doesn't begin to fall until around nine. That's one thing I've always loved about living here. The endless summer. Of course, the trade-off is that you're freezing in the winter, and it's dark by 3:45.

We hang around the city all afternoon, grabbing lunch and a quick nap under a tree in the Public Garden. Around nine, we make our way back to Marlborough and wait across the street, on the stoop of number 427. Just after 9:30, a young couple comes out the front door, and Abe hops up to grab the door behind them. They don't say anything as we slip inside, no question whom we're visiting in the building. I love when things are easy.