I pause outside the room where my dad is. Someone had shut the door. Confidence. I put my hand on the k.n.o.b and swing the door open into a small conference room. There's a shiny wooden table with six chairs set around it. Two are unoccupied.

Four sets of eyes turn to look at me. The man sitting at the head of the table is wearing a naval uniform. Two men sit to his left. My dad sits to his right. There's a stack of papers next to my dad. Papers I need to get.

"Who are you?" the man in uniform demands.

"Sorry," I say. "I was asked to bring these." I hold up the pages I swiped from the secretaries and deliberately ignore his question.

"What are they?"

"I'm not sure. I didn't read them. I a.s.sumed they were cla.s.sified."

"Leave them and go," the man says, waving his hand at the door. "And knock first next time."

"Yes, sir." I try to ignore how dizzy I am as I walk over to my dad. He's already turned his attention back to the man in charge. My hands are trembling. I'm stealing doc.u.ments right from under my dad's nose in a White House conference room. There's no way I should succeed.

I eye the stack of papers near my dad. There aren't many. Five or so? I take five off the top of my stack and get ready.

The naval officer leans forward and presses the tip of his index finger into the table. "We plan to increase immediately the number of missiles aboard every submarine in our fleet."

"And Lockheed is ready and able to meet this increased demand," one of the other men says. I place the big stack of my papers next to my dad. "As you know, our Polaris missiles are the most advanced technology on the market."

"To date," my father says. He turns to face the military officer, who's now staring at the other two men. No eyes on me. I swipe my father's papers and replace them with the five I took from the top of the stack. "But I guarantee Pantheon can do better."

Pantheon. My head swims. That's what Joe said in 1995. He was building himself a pantheon.

Jackpot.

I bet Pantheon turns out to be a subsidiary of Eagle. Eagle wants a government contract to arm nuclear submarines. Of course they do. They profit off of wars and government contracts. That's their bread and b.u.t.ter.

As I turn to go, I glance down at the top page in my hand. Pantheon is there, and under it, there's a name. Joseph C. Caldwell Sr. Senior. As in Joe's dad? He somehow got his father in on this?

I need to forget Ariel and whatever he's up to, and let him do what history demands of him. I need to get the h.e.l.l out of here. I open the door. I can't project in the middle of the White House, but it's good to be prepared.

I close the door behind me. I'm still dizzy. I have the evidence I need to launch the investigation into Joe and all of Eagle Industries.

I hurry down the hall, back toward the press briefing room. I pause at the staircase where Ariel followed those men and pray I haven't done anything here that would compromise his mission. Then I keep walking. I don't know any other exit than the way I came in. I'm close to freedom, so close to freedom.

But then I'm not.

A door bangs open behind me.

"There she is!"

It's my dad. He looks from me to the papers in my hand. "Stop her!" he shouts. "She must be KGB!"

My dad thinks I'm a Russian spy? Oh no. Oh no! You do not want to be captured as a suspected KGB agent in 1962!

Another man in a naval officer's uniform rounds the corner from the press briefing area.

"Stop her! KGB!" my dad shouts again.

No! I make a hard right and tear down the stairs. Footsteps thunder after me. Lots of them. I'm going to wind up with a bullet in my back. I just need to get out of sight so I can project. My dad can't see me project. He can't know I'm Annum Guard. It will blow everything. He has to keep thinking I'm KGB.

Because my dad has already seen me. Not for more than a glance and not while he was focusing, but he's seen me. That alone could alter the course of history-the course of me.

"Stop!" a man shouts.

I don't stop. I tear to the right, then to the left. There are more stairs and a maze of doors, and I'm completely lost somewhere in the West Wing. I make another right.

"KGB on the loose!" the same man shouts. I can't tell where he is. Somewhere behind me. "Young! Female! Dark hair! Capture immediately!"

Doors fly open. Guns are drawn. I freeze. No! I can't project right now. Not in front of these people. I'm screwed. Completely screwed. And then the door directly in front of me opens. One of the men I saw Ariel with steps out. I look past him. Ariel is staring at me, and I know I need help. I look at him and reach inside the top of my dress to grab my Annum Watch. It falls against my chest.

Ariel blinks.

I pray this decision didn't just mess up the future. The only reason I was able to take down Alpha in the first place was because Ariel helped me in 1963. Is that timeline screwed up? What if he won't help me then? What if he won't help me now?

Then I have my answer. Ariel pushes past the man standing in the doorway to get to me.

"What are you doing?" the man yells.

Lots of things happen at once. People rush at me from all angles. There are guns almost everywhere I look. Ariel dives into me.

"Go!" he whispers in my ear. Then he yells to everyone else, "I'll get her!"

His elbow thumps into my back, telling me to go, and I duck and somehow squeeze my way through a wall of men.

"She's getting away!" someone shouts.

And then there's a shot. And another shot. And a hailstorm of bullets rains down in the West Wing. I scream and round the corner, then whip open my watch face, spin the dial, and I'm gone.

CHAPTER 31.

Going forward wasn't an option, so I went back. Two hundred years, three hundred years. I don't know. I didn't count.

I land in a heap on the ground. I'm panting and gasping. The papers! I still have the papers. The ones that link Eagle Industries to Joe Caldwell. Well, that will link him with a little more investigation.

I force myself to take a breath and look around. I have no idea when I am, but I'm in a very primitive version of DC. There are a few small buildings, houses, and churches, and I'm standing in an open field where the White House will be built . . . at some point in the future.

I run. I ignore the men in white powdered wigs, the women in long, sweeping dresses, the children playing with wooden toys in the streets. The cries, the protests. I ignore all of it. I don't stop running until I'm alone and gasping for breath again.

Good enough. Then I pull out my watch and project to 1975. I pick the date at random. I need a time before there were airport screenings because I don't have any ID on me. I need to hop a plane and get back to Annum Hall. Get back to Abe. I feel like my entire life is riding on this.

I'm now standing in front of the Washington Monument. It's five in the morning. There are cars on the street and joggers on the sidewalks, but it doesn't look like anyone saw me project.

I book it to a sidewalk and raise my arm for a cab. Any cab. I just need to get to the airport. Annum Hall. Annum Hall. I have to get to Annum Hall. I have to trust that Red reached my teammates first. But what if Colton escaped? I still have his watch safe in my pocket, but what if Tyler found him somehow? What if . . . no. I didn't even think about the possibility that Colton might have a tracker! If they've moved Abe and the others, I might never see them again. Not after what I did.

Colton now has a vendetta against me. What if he took my teammates back hundreds of years-the seventeenth century, the sixteenth century, the fifteenth century? I could be seventy by the time Abe makes his way back to me. He might never catch up. There's a lump in the back of my throat and I retch.

No. Positive thoughts. They're fine. They're all fine.

I wave my hand in the air, and a cab stops. I press my evidence tight against my chest and hop in.

"Where to?" the driver asks.

"The airport. An airport. I don't care which one. Dulles or Reagan. I just need to get to Boston as soon as possible."

The driver's brow furrows. "Reagan? What's that? Do you mean National?"

"I . . . um . . . yes." Stupid me. Of course the airport isn't named Reagan yet. He wasn't the president until the eighties. "I'm a little fl.u.s.tered. I just need to get on a flight."

The driver looks at me for another second. His expression is mostly one of distrust, but there's a hint of compa.s.sion peeking through. I prey on it. Time to pull out the big gun, the one that hasn't failed me yet.

"I have to get to a funeral. Immediately."

That does it. The driver turns and shifts the car into gear. The old-fashioned gearshift is up by the steering wheel. "National's gonna be your best bet. They have more flights."

I murmur a thank you, then watch the trees blur as we head down the highway. Again, I have to wait for the ticket counter to open. I pace around. My training is failing me. I'm all in my head and I can't shut off the voices. The voices telling me I've lost, that Colton won, that Abe is gone, that I'll never see him again.

By the time the counter opens, I'm frantic.

"I need to get to Boston," I pant to the ticket agent. Uniforms have changed since the sixties. Her skirt falls to her knees. She doesn't budge, so I throw out a "funeral."

"Oh," she says in a soft whisper, then issues me a ticket on a seven a.m. flight. I run to the gate, even though I still have an hour to kill.

By the time we board, my hands are shaking.

The flight feels four times longer than it actually is. The second we reach the gate, I push my way through the other pa.s.sengers so I'm the first one off the plane. I ignore the stares and the comments. I know I'm being rude, but I don't care. I'm on a mission.

Literally.

I lock myself in one of the bathroom stalls and pull out my watch. I click the k.n.o.b on top that will send me to the present, and before I know it, I'm in my time. I have no idea what day it is, how much time I lost. Is it July? August?

It doesn't matter.

I cut to the front of the cab line. I push right past a businessman stepping off the curb and launch myself into the car.

"Funeral!" I bark, but I don't bother to apologize. "I need to get to 34 Beacon Street now! By the State House!"

"Beacon Street?" The driver turns to look at me. Why isn't he driving yet? "Ain't no funeral homes on that stretch of Beacon Street."

I give him a stern look. "It's a private memorial service."

We're off. I press my knees together and bounce my heels on the floor of the car. Up and down, up and down. Close. I'm so close. Indigo's still weeks behind, but maybe if Red got Abe right away, we're both caught up. He might be there waiting for me.

I manage to keep it together as the driver pulls up in front of Annum Hall.

I run up the steps. The door is unlocked. There's no one in the foyer. I run into the living room. Where is everyone? I spin in a circle. Yellow is sitting in the library, her nose in a book.

"Yellow!"

She looks up at me and wrinkles her nose. "What?" She sounds annoyed.

"Did you find them? Blue, Indigo, the others?"

"What are you blabbering about?" She goes back to her book and mutters, "Drama queen."

I blink. Once. Twice. It's like she has no idea what I'm talking about. And she's acting like the Yellow I first met, not the Yellow who's my friend.

The pop of gunfire erupts in my memories. Wait. What if- "h.e.l.lo," a voice says behind me. No. It can't be.

I turn.

It is.

Alpha smiles. "We weren't expecting you back so soon."

I choke. "What . . . what are . . . I don't understand."

His smile widens. "Rough trip back?"

"Where's Abe?" I sway slightly.

"Abe?" he asks.

"Stender," I say.

"Like Ariel Stender?"

"Yes! Like Ariel Stender!"

Alpha purses his lips and stares at me with intense eyes, and I'm reminded how intimidating he is. Or used to be. I don't understand what's going on.

Alpha squares his shoulders. "How did you find out about Ariel Stender? That's cla.s.sified information."

I don't say anything-can't say anything.

His voice is firm. "I'm not sure why you're asking about Ariel Stender. If you know about his existence, you must know he's dead. He died on the very first Annum Guard mission."

I hear the sounds again. They're so loud, like they're not just in my mind anymore. The thunder, the popping, the gunfire. Ariel is dead?

But-no. That means he never met Mona-he never had children-he never- Abe.