“But . . . ?” he asks.
“The other part says I’ll never get a decent night’s sleep until every single medallion is crushed into smithereens so that no one, not even me, can tamper with whatever timeline we end up with. The only thing that both parts of me agree on is that uncertainty drives me crazy.”
“Okay, what I said earlier about talking to someone—” He holds up his hand as I start to speak. “No, wait, hear me out. You’re right—if we took you to see a professional, they’d lock you up or have you on so many antipsychotic drugs you wouldn’t be able to see the medallion, let alone use it. But. Maybe you need both parents in this? Your mom would take a little while to adj—”
“No, Dad. No. Yesterday, I might have agreed with you, but . . .” I might as well tell him. “Okay, she’s planning to call today, and I’d rather you didn’t let her know I told you first, but she’s got this really incredible work opportunity. I’ll let her give you the details, but it means a lot of travel, and she’s leaving middle of next week. I don’t think she’ll go if we tell her about this. And even though I think Katherine . . .”
I’m about to mention my suspicion that Katherine is behind Mom’s research opportunity. But I don’t have any logical reason to suspect Katherine had anything to do with it, and she didn’t look at all guilty when I mentioned it, so I don’t say anything.
“You think Katherine what?”
“It’s just . . . they’d argue about all of this. You know they would. Katherine doesn’t need the extra stress, and neither do I.”
He nods, but his green eyes are wary.
“I know what you’re thinking, Dad. I promise I’ll take the blame if Mom finds out. I’ll say you absolutely begged me to tell her before she left on this trip, but I said no.”
“That might pull my ass out of the fire but not yours. I don’t want her angry at you, either.” His eyes flit up toward the library.
“That won’t happen. Mom and I will not end up like Mom and Katherine. Pinky promise.”
“Double pinky promise?”
I link our fingers on both hands. “Done and done.”
He smiles and squeezes my pinkies with his. Then he glances down at the knuckles on my index fingers, both of which I’ve gnawed to an angry shade of pink, and the smile fades. “I’m going to have a chat with Katherine. You take this at whatever speed feels best to you, okay? You need time off, you take time off. In fact,” he says, looking down at his watch, “you are under parental orders to not even think about any of this for the next twenty-four hours. Get dressed, and pick out a movie. I’m thinking something animated, but it’s your choice, as long as it’s a comedy. Then, dinner someplace that isn’t here. After which you will sleep a minimum of ten hours, with no freaky dreams.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m also smiling. “Yeah, right.”
“Don’t argue with your father. You’re not to go anywhere near that diary until tomorrow. And if Katherine can’t handle that, she can find another time traveler to run her errands.”
Pixar and popcorn rock as a distraction combo. Then we go to Dave and Buster’s, and I kick Dad’s butt at Fruit Ninja. (And he kicks mine at Skee-Ball.) My mind slips back into worry mode a few times, but this afternoon is the closest I’ve been to stress-free in months.
We get back, and I work out for a little while, but I’m a bit sore from my marathon session last night. When I finish, I run a hot bath, toss in some lavender-scented flakes, and enjoy a long, luxurious soak. It’s still only a little after eight when I get out of the tub. I pull on pajamas anyway and curl up on my couch, debating whether to download a new novel or watch a movie.
I’m movied out, so I opt for the book, but a half hour later, it isn’t holding my interest. I keep glancing at the diary, which seems more tempting now, possibly because I’m under parental orders to ignore it.
I pick it up and click on link 34, recorded shortly after the Dallas trip in this earlier version of the timeline. Other-Kate is eating baby carrots dipped in something green that I can’t identify, so I get to listen to her crunch and talk at the same time. I’m both kind of disgusted and kind of thinking the carrots look good, especially if that dip has wasabi in it.
She starts out talking about training, but then the word “Sputnik” catches my attention, so I scan back to the beginning of the sentence:
Anyway, Katherine thinks Moehler’s there to observe a press conference about Sputnik, but this is based on her recollection of a weekly meeting where the historians went around the table and reported on what they were doing. There were thirty-six altogether, and when she was in that meeting, she had no way of knowing that it would be the last one. Also, that was over forty years ago, so who knows how much she really remembers? Apparently no one in the U.S.S.R. thought the launch was a big deal, until they realized the American press was in a frenzy. What started out as a one-paragraph blurb on an interior page of Pravda on October 4th balloons into a multipage, patriotic frenzy in the next day’s edition. So, the conference could be on either of those two days.
She stops to crunch another carrot before continuing:
But Connor doesn’t think the Russians bothered with press conferences at all. Why hold a press conference when you have state-owned media? You’d just give Pravda what you wanted in the paper. He thinks Katherine is barking up the wrong tree, and I agree. Since Connor rarely argues with Katherine to her face, however, I had to challenge her on it. The bigger question for me is what kind of idiots send observers to Russia in the middle of the Cold War? I mean, sure, they probably trained for years, and they probably could blend in with the locals a lot better th—
I hit “Pause.” Anytime this Kate strays away from talking about events that happened and ventures into the land of opinion, it’s a bit like watching myself in a mirror. It’s both freaky and boring, because she says what I’ve been thinking, using the same phrases and the same hand gestures. There’s a good seven minutes of this remaining, and I’m pretty sure she’s just venting and isn’t going to say anything I haven’t thought of already, so I fast-forward a few minutes and click “Play.”
—putting together an early 1900s outfit. I can’t say I’m wild about that, but going to Florida sounds good. There’s a stable point at Fort Myers, beginning 1895, labeled “Edison/Ford/Koreshans.” Thomas Edison and Henry Ford had summer homes there, and after a little digging, I found out that the Koreshans were an obscure cult who moved about ten miles outside of Fort Myers in 1895 to start their own little utopia. Here’s the thing that caught my interest—Koresh is the Hebrew word for Cyrus.
I stop and replay the last part to be sure I heard correctly and then rush down the hallway and into the library, eager to share my find. Katherine is at one of the three computers. I slide the diary in front of her and click to play that section again.
“It’s not Saul,” Katherine says before the clip even finishes, turning again to face the computer screen.
“How do you know? That would have to be a pretty major coincidence, right? Did you catch the last part?” I start to rewind the video, trying to hit the sweet spot after Other-Kate finishes complaining about Katherine and before she starts talking about Florida.