“I’ve been better.” I spend the next few minutes filling him in about the past two days, and I end up in tears.
“Your grandpa is stable now, Kate. Maybe I should come home.”
“Dad, no. It’s okay.”
There’s a long silence, and then he says, “I’m still trying to get past the idea of you with a gun. Where did you . . .”
“Kiernan. Once my hand stopped shaking, I discovered that I’m actually a decent shot.”
“Apparently, since you put a hole in Saul’s arm rather than his head. I know it’s probably not much consolation, Kate, but at least you were able to save one person. That’s something for the positive column, right?”
Connor walks in, and I glance over at him as I say, “I’m glad to see someone agrees with me on that point.”
“Katherine and Connor are angry?”
“Katherine is. Not sure about Connor.”
Connor looks at me with his eyebrows raised when he hears his name.
“Listen, Dad—I’m okay. Talking helped. Stay with Grandma Keller. She needs you more than I do right now. I love you—and I’ll call you back later, okay?”
“What are you not sure about Connor?” Connor asks.
“If you’re angry that we saved Martha.”
He’s silent for a moment and then says, “No, I’m not angry. I hope Kiernan was right, and based on what you told me about the photographs, his conclusion makes more sense than anything else I can think of. And . . . uh . . . I’m not sure Katherine would want me to tell you this, but she got this sudden change of expression when we got back to her room, like she’d had some sort of epiphany. She asked me to grab her personal diary. All she would say is that maybe Saul getting shot wasn’t something new—that he came back injured one time.”
“That’s right. But . . . she said it was a burn of some sort. He wouldn’t go to—” I break off when I see Katherine in the doorway.
“To CHRONOS Med,” she finishes, giving Connor a slightly perturbed look before turning her eyes back to me. “I’m sorry I lost my temper, Kate. While I can’t be sure, based on what I recorded that day, this would explain why Saul was reluctant to let anyone see that injury. I suspect he knew CHRONOS Med could tell the difference between a bullet graze and a burn.”
Trey is disappointed that the restaurant isn’t the rooftop place he saw on the website—apparently that’s the bar, and it’s only for ages twenty-one and up. The maître d’ told him we’re welcome to go up and check out the view before we leave, and he seated us at a table overlooking the White House with the Washington Monument in the background.
Since Trey is usually much more at home in places like this than I am, it’s strange to see him fidget, tugging at the sleeve of his blazer. He’s been nervous since he picked me up at the townhouse.
After we give the waiter our order, I reach across the table and squeeze Trey’s hand. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m . . . just . . .” He smiles. “Did I tell you that you look beautiful tonight?”
I nod. “Twice, actually. Once when I answered the door and once after I ran back upstairs and changed into this.”
This is a red-and-black brocade dress I swiped from Mom’s closet when I saw Trey in a gray blazer over black pants and a black shirt. I also grabbed her new heels from the closet, where she tossed them after our dinner with Katherine this past spring, and have now discovered exactly why she left them behind when she packed for Italy.
“You didn’t answer my question. What’s wrong?”
“No,” he says, looking down at his water goblet. “I guess I didn’t. I just wanted everything to be perfect, and when I made the reservations, the person on the phone said . . .” He looks up and laughs when he sees my expression. “And I think I’m obsessing a bit. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I lean forward and kiss his knuckles. “You need a character flaw of some sort. Otherwise, you make me seem like a total wreck. But this really is absolutely perfect, so maybe you should cut yourself just a teensy bit of slack?”
The waiter arrives with our drinks and a bread basket that smells heavenly.
“So,” Trey says, “how was your day at the office, dear?”
“Probably not something you want to discuss over dinner.” The closest people are three tables over, but I lower my voice anyway. “I’ll just give you the thirty-second version—Kiernan was shot, but he’s okay now. We went to Six Bridges and got the sample, which we’re holding in a locked fridge until we can track down someone . . . let’s just say sympathetic to the cause . . . who is also qualified to analyze it. On the bright side, we were able to save one girl. On the not-so-bright side, we learned that Saul wasn’t the only historian there. Another guy was with him. The same trainee that is with Abel and Delia in Athens 1938. We’re getting ready for that jump now.”
“Okay, can we back up to the part where Kiernan was shot?”
“I wasn’t with him. Kiernan kind of went rogue and fetched the key from the guy who was killed in Copenhagen, Moehler. I told you about Moehler, right?”
Trey nods.
“Anyway, he says he wore protective gear, but a bullet caught him in the leg.”
“Who shot him? Do you think it was this trainee you saw?”
“No. CHRONOS had very specific fields of study, and Katherine’s pretty sure Grant wasn’t a Europeanist. He was almost certainly specializing in American history, so I can’t imagine any reason they would have approved a jump to Copenhagen. Probably not for Saul, either, so I think we can safely say it’s not one of the original historians. Whoever killed Moehler, probably the same person who shot Kiernan, is one of the second-generation travelers, like me, Prudence, Simon, Conwell—I guess Eve is a possibility, too, although I have a tough time imagining her with a gun.”
Of course, I have a tough time imagining me wielding a gun, and yet there’s one with my fingerprints on the trigger back in 1911.
I take a sip of my water and then go on. “Or it could be someone else entirely. Kiernan says there are maybe a half dozen others. Hell, for all I know, it could’ve been Houdini.”
The waiter slides the salads in front of us, grinds a bit of pepper and Parmesan on top, and then vanishes. We’re too busy eating for the next few minutes to really talk, and it’s probably just as well, because I can tell that Trey still has questions, and I think the odds are good that they’re questions for which I have no answers.
My phone buzzes inside my purse. I give Trey an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I’d like to turn it off, but with Katherine and with Dad in Delaware . . .”
“It’s okay,” he says as I glance down at the display,
“And it’s Charlayne.” I shake my head. “I’ll answer her later. I’m guessing she’s come up with another bogus question about homework.”
“How long are you going to be able to keep up the pretense before you snap and slug her?”
I shrug. “I’d like to think she has a good reason for agreeing to do this, but who knows? Maybe she just wants to suck up to Eve.”
When the waiter asks about dessert, Trey tells him we have other plans, and a short elevator ride later, we’re on the balcony of the top floor. Trey wraps his arms around me from behind, and I find that there is a benefit to these wretched heels after all—I’m now the perfect height to lean my head back against his shoulder. We just stand there, looking out at the sunset, and it’s nice to have a moment, even a short one, where everything is peaceful, quiet, and perfect.
Then he says, “You do know that I love you, don’t you?”
My heart catches in my throat, because it’s not like the last time he said it for the first time. I hear doubt in his voice, like this is something he thinks he should say but he’s not really sure. And he probably thinks he should say it because I said it to him, weeks ago, which makes it overdue in his book, even though it’s not. Maybe that’s why he’s been so nervous, so on edge tonight.