The memory of collectors by Dete Meser 02

7:58 p.m. We have so little time. Every second matters. I don't tell Mark about Sam's death. Most of us really don't want to know all the pain and loss we'll suffer. I won't crush his joy in this moment by telling him about the grief ahead. Instead, I tell him about the symptoms Andy and I have been experiencing, and he immediately gets on the phone with his chief health and medical officer to find answers. As he talks, he moves around the room with purpose, the phone pressed to his ear, concern etched on his face.

Meanwhile, I text Sam. Your dad is here. Come home as soon as you can. No reply. A few minutes later, I try again. Don't forget you promised to be home for my birthday dinner. Brooke promised to stay off the PCH, so the rational part of my brain reminds me that Sam is safe tonight. But love does not always accept rational thought.

As Mark talks on the phone, I can't take my eyes off him. The soft intensity in his gaze, the reassuring cadence of his voice, it all draws me in. This is the man I once loved and perhaps still do, even if we're not together anymore. "She's experiencing numbness and tingling," he says into the phone, then gently takes my hand in his. "Her hands have a normal temperature." In this crystal moment, his focus is entirely on me. And while the contact is brief, it sends a jolt of awareness through me, reminding me of the tenderness we once shared. He listens to the medical officer again, then whispers to me. "He thinks this is a side effect of the failed extractions. He's looking into what we should do." I focus on his face, the concern in his eyes, grounding me, but it also stirs up feelings I thought I'd buried in my grief. As I stand here hand-in-hand with the man I once planned to spend my life with, I realize that this moment, this feeling, and this memory will stay with me forever. What happens here won't change the future, but I am changed by reliving these soft moments with him in the hours before our lives were shattered.

The front door slams, breaking the spell. "Sam!" I call out. No answer. While Mark continues with the medical officer, I rush into the living room to see Sam standing at the safe, punching in the combination. I freeze. A backpack hangs off his shoulder and his hair is a windblown mess. A knot of dread twists in my stomach. "What's going on?" I ask, my heart pounding. "Where's dad?" "He's on the phone. What are you doing?" His face flushes. "I just need to borrow some cash." "For what? Tell me what's going on, Sam." He sighs and stuffs a small stack of bills into his backpack. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to worry. I'll pay you back. Promise." My voice hardens. "Put it back, Sam. Put it all back until you tell me what it's for." He inhales sharply, avoiding my gaze. "I have a good reason. There's nothing to worry about." But I am worried. The gun is still missing, too. "Is it really at the range?" His face pales. "I'm just trying to keep everyone safe, Mom. That's all I want to do. I've got this under control." His phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, his expression tightening. "I have to go." "Sam, you promised." "8:00. My birthday." He squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm sorry. I'll be back by 9," he says, his voice taut. My voice shakes. "Sam, don't leave. You can't leave." He turns toward me in surprise, and I swear I can see the four-year-old there. The one with the soft cheeks and big brown eyes who needed help with his Transformers. The tears fall. His eyes soften. "Everything's going to be okay, Mom." "Really?" In my bones, I know that isn't true. I have the unsettling feeling that I'm experiencing my last moments with him. My heart blooms with love for him. I look at him and try to hold time in my hands. "I won't let you go." "I'll be fine," he says softly. "Love you." I close my eyes and will myself to see the absolute wonder in this moment instead of the loss that's ahead. I fill myself with the joy of being with him. And I miss him even while he's standing right in front of me. He leans in to hug me, and we stay in it long enough that my heart, which is directly over his, can speak to his. The world changes between heartbeats. Not everything is under my control, even when I want it to be. Even when I need it to be. I grip his hands tightly. "You don't understand, Sam. Something terrible will happen to you tonight. I can't let you leave." My words hover in front of me as if I can see them instead of just hearing them. My mouth feels like I've been sucking on cotton. I draw in a deep breath and I have the feeling I'm being pulled upward. The air turns to glue. I'm being extracted. "I love you." When your heart is breaking, what else is there to say? I hear a music box and a man's voice. His words are garbled like he's speaking a foreign language. A doorknob appears in front of my face and I reach out to touch it. My body pulses with electric shock. Then everything is black.

>> Chapter 26. Logan

8:05 p.m. Hell. I wake up from a nap and my mouth feels pasty. The same nightmare again and again. I'm standing in the bike lane on the PCH, then realize I shouldn't be there just seconds before the car barrels at me. In another, I see the speeding car, but my feet are anchored to the ground and I can't move. I gulp down some water and brush my teeth, trying to shake off the dreamlike haze that clings to everything around me. I've been a mess today. Not surprising considering the date. My stomach is still tense after my hands went numb this morning. I soaked them in hot water for 10 minutes to bring the feeling back. After that, my whole body felt heavy and sluggish, and I fell onto the couch for what turned out to be a 2-hour nap. Even though I rarely sleep during the day, even as I brush my teeth, I feel disconnected from the world around me.

A text swoops across my phone. "You coming to do the double or not?" Just like the first time around, my friend EMTT texts me, reminding about plans to do a double metric century, a 130-mile hardcore bike trip tomorrow that would take us up the coast north of Santa Barbara. With its challenging 6,500 ft climb, it's the equivalent of running a marathon, pushing my body and mind to the limit. Doing 130 miles in a day is a rite of passage for any athlete and one that commands respect. My movements are slow and labored right now, but I know the trip will make me feel strong and unconquerable, and there's always a good chance of a coastal tailwind to make the ride back home super sweet. The first time around, I'd committed to this ride, but never made it. Instead, spending the next weeks in the ICU on my way to being in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. But that accident isn't going to happen because Brooke won't be on the PCH and Sam and I won't be there either. We're making that happen.

The phone chimes with a second text from EMTT. "I've been expecting this one, too. See you at the party tonight. You can crash here. We head out at 6:00 in the morning." I throw together a backpack, get on my bike, and head over to the beach.

Chapter 27. Andy.

9:12 p.m. I'm waiting in my car a few yards down the street from the 7-Eleven. If things go as they did the first time around, in a few minutes, sometime before 9:13, Kate will be in the 7-Eleven with Sam. Only this time, I'm here, too. A gray sedan races up and slides into one of the parking spots out front. I watch for what seems like forever until I see a figure in a black jacket slide out of the driver's seat carrying a backpack. Sam. He stops a moment, scans the area, and when he's satisfied with whatever he's seeing or not seeing, he rushes inside. He's alone. Where is Kate? I look down at my hands and see they're clasped so tightly on the steering wheel that my knuckles are white. I loosen my grip, get out of the car, and head to the entrance, gathering my courage along the way.

Through the glass doors, I see my cousin Justin, the night manager, behind the register, helping Sam. Kate is standing right beside him. I can't figure out how she got there. I never saw her come in. Maybe she came in before I arrived or arrived through another entrance. Kate looks like a disheveled version of herself. Her hair is twisted into a messy top knot, and she speaks quickly to Sam, gesturing with her hands. The navy blue backpack I'd seen Sam carry in is now slung over one of her shoulders. She leans in for a hug, exactly as she did the first time around. And in those five seconds, my heart goes from fluttering to banging so hard against my ribs, I think they will break. My breath comes in fast, shallow gasps as I step inside.

"Kate?" I ask. She turns in my direction and I almost don't recognize her. Her eyes are wide and in the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights, her skin is almost gray. "Andy, what are you doing here?" she asks. I force myself to sound normal, but my heart is pounding so fast I can hear it in my ears. "I came in for water." We stand there looking at each other, two people who were falling in love a few hours ago, and the air is heavy with unanswered questions. Justin has no other customers, so he pretends he's doing some straightening. "Are you going somewhere?" I managed to ask casually, even though I know that wherever she goes after this means I'll never see her again. "Wherever it is, I'll go with you." She glances at Sam and then at me. "You shouldn't be here. I won't put you in the middle of this." "If I let you go, I'll regret it for the rest of my life. You have no idea what he's capable of." Fear wraps itself around my chest like steel bands. "What, who's capable of?" She doesn't answer. Instead, moving past me to the door. "I'm coming with you," I say, stepping into her path. She whirls around to face me. "You're not safe with me, Andy." "I'm going with you," she exhales loudly. "Fine, get in Sam's car. He's here," she says breathlessly as we slide into the back seat. Sam puts the car in gear and we peel out of the parking lot and into the darkness. "He knows where I am. I have to go." "Slow down," I say. "Who is here?" "My ex," she says. "Dane Reynolds. I left, escaped from him last January. Your husband? Boyfriend?" "I want—I want to tell you everything about me, but you're not going to like." Her voice trails off. "You think I'm going to be what? Disappointed in you?" I say. "I won't be." She looks down. "It's more than that. You'll know that I've lied to you." I place my hand on hers. "Kate, I want to be with you no matter what you tell me." She shakes her head. "Why are you so nice to me when I've given you no reason to be?" If Sam wasn't in the car, I would have told her that I've come to the past searching for her. And in my heightened state, I probably would have overshared. But we're flying at top speed down the PCH towards some unknown destination. And I need to understand why. "Tell me about Dane." She tucks the food and supplies they've just bought into her backpack. "We were living together for about a year. At first, he was normal. Then he had an injury at work. He works at a paper mill and hurt his back real bad and started taking pills for the pain. Other things, too. The first time he hurt me, he was joking around. He pulled on my hair and laughed, but something felt mean. And the meanness got darker. Soon he was coming home most nights drunk or high or both. And he hit me because the refrigerator had a smell or he tripped over the rug or because I talked to the neighbor for too long because I slept too late or woke him too early. I'd spend my days strategizing how to avoid his anger, how to do everything he wants so I don't get hit. Then he'd surprise me by saying he loves me and then be sweet again. I'd seen movies about abusive relationships and it didn't look like what was happening to me. Until one day it did. He got mad about something I said and he started breaking my piano, an old upright I'd found by a dumpster and restored so I could play every day. He took a hammer and smashed every one of its keys. Wood was flying everywhere. He destroyed the only thing I had that meant anything to me. I tried to make him stop, but he shoved me into the wall so hard that I passed out." Tears slide down her cheeks. "That's why you have the scar on your forehead," I say softly. "Not a softball accident." Her voice rises. "Why aren't you angry with me when you know I've been telling you lie after lie?" "Because I have the benefit of knowing that in the future I'll miss you. That nothing makes sense without you." She looks at me like she can't process what I'm saying. "What do you mean you'll miss me?" I've said too much. "Tell me how you got here to Ventura." She draws a shaky breath. "After Dane shoved me, I was so scared that even thinking about what happened made me panic. I started putting together a backpack with things I would need to escape. At night, I'd lie beside him while he slept, and I'd plan out every step. I was working at a grocery store and started saving money. But it wasn't enough. So, I sold my mother's jewelry, hid the money away in my shoes until I had enough to buy a bus ticket and start a life someplace new. But Dane had installed software that spied on everything I did on my computer. He saw what I was planning. I got as far as the bus station and there he was, standing at the entrance and mad as hell. He dragged me home and slapped me until my face was red and bloody. Then he put a gun to my head and threatened to kill me if I didn't promise. Swear on my mother's Bible that I'd never leave him again. 'I can kill you,' he said. I believed him. Of course, he said he was sorry." She continues, "He always did, but then he said I deserved it and warned me that if I told anyone, he would make me sorryer than you ever thought possible." "I was so scared and angry that as soon as he went into the bathroom, I grabbed that backpack and ran two miles in a thunderstorm. He came after me, of course. I hid in the bushes and trees and saw his car racing down the road looking for me. Then I ran to the only restaurant in our small town and begged a stranger to drive me 45 minutes to the Kalamazoo airport. I waited outside in the freezing rain for hours until they opened and paid cash to get on the first flight out. I flew to Detroit and when I got there, I jumped on the next flight out and went to Chicago. Then I got the last ticket on a cheap airline flying to Los Angeles. There was no reason for my choices. That way, Dane couldn't guess where I was going because I had no plan. When I got to LA, I took a train up north and got off at the 11th stop, another random choice, which turned out to be here in Ventura. But I didn't really escape because ever since then, I keep waiting for him to find me." I release a breath, fighting my anger at Dane and everything he put her through. "What about your parents, friends? Couldn't anyone help you?" She looks out the window. "My mom died two years ago. I never met my dad. I didn't tell my friends what was happening. Dane preyed on that. Me being alone." The anger at Dane comes at me like a wave. "It's not your fault," I say softly. "It's not your fault what he did to you." Tears spill out of her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. She swipes them away, but they seem to have a will of their own and keep coming. I reach across the seat and place my hand on hers. "What makes you think he's here?" I ask. "I thought I saw him sitting behind the wheel of a black pickup truck on Main Street a few days ago. That's why I wanted to skip Gelato and go into the antique shop instead. I didn't see him after that, but I could feel his presence watching me. When we were on the beach this afternoon, the camera in my living room recorded him breaking into my apartment. That's why you left." "I ran to the bank to withdraw cash so I could begin my escape. But when I got there, he was waiting for me in his truck. It's like he already knew my every move, like he always has. I took off running and lucky for me, a woman in a car picked me up and drove me to the 7-Eleven." "How do you think he found you?" "I really don't know. I'm super careful. I always pay with cash, stay off social media, and try to avoid cameras. Maybe I messed up somewhere. He has a cousin who works in law enforcement who helped him find me the first time I escaped. I'll bet he's helping Dane now." The three of us are silent then as we hurtle through the darkness. All I hear is the high-pitched whistle of the winds as they kick up and swirl around the car in tempo with my thundering heartbeat. "Is your real name Kate?" "It's the name I use now. My real name is Sarah. Sarah Canford. But I'm no longer that person who put up with Dane who was afraid to leave. I filed the paperwork to legally change my name, but the process takes time. We've got to call the police." "The sheriff already did," she says. "They won't come in time, and they won't believe me. The last time I went to them when I was in Michigan, one officer told me I was lying. The other kept saying I was somehow complicit. They didn't take it seriously. Hurting a loved one is somehow different than hurting a stranger." She wipes her eyes and even in the dim light of the back seat, I can see her body is rigid with fear. "What if I called the police for you?" She holds up a small phone. "Don't. I called them from this burner phone. I lied and said I would wait for them outside city hall. Dane always monitors the police scanner, so he'll head straight there. That'll give me a head start." "A head start to where?" "Dane's seen my car already. Sam's, too. For sure. Yours. If I try to drive away, he'll track me. I won't get away." "Where are we going, then?" "My family owns a boat that Kate is taking to Anakappa Island tonight." Sam pipes up from the front seat. "Sam taught me to drive it. Anakappa Island in the Channel Islands. It's like 3 hours away." She nods. "The boat has GPS. Dane could rent a boat and follow you." "The last boat from the harbor has already left," she says. "And even if he manages to find a boat, he won't be able to track me on the water." My geography of the Channel Islands is limited, but clearly hers isn't. "After Anakappa, I'll head to Catalina Island. The whole trip is about 85 nautical miles, so I'll have plenty of gas." She continues, "Stay with me instead. You'll be safer. Your apartment is the first place he'll go. He's seen me with you. He'll be crazy with jealousy." "You make him sound unstoppable." "Because he is," she says, her voice shaking. "He's already proven that he'll never give up looking for me. But Anakappa Island is rocky with steep cliffs. And if you run into any trouble, there's no one there to help." "Exactly why he won't look for me there," Kate says with confidence. "But arriving there at night is dangerous. You may not be able to dock the boat easily, and you'd have to swim." "I've been training for that, too. Twice a week at the Y." The realization hits me. "That's why you swim on Sunday mornings." She nods. "And if Dane does follow me to Anakappa, Sam has loaned me some protection." She pats the side of her backpack. My mouth goes dry. "A gun?" "Do you know how to use it?" Her voice shakes. "Sam's taken me to the gun range a few times. I'm not great, but I know what to do." "We only have about 30 minutes until high tide when we won't be able to walk on the beach," Sam says a few minutes later. He accelerates. "We have to hurry. Where's your boat moored?" I ask. "At the harbor." "It was, but the harbor is crowded with people, which would make it easier for Dane to spot her," he says. "And the escape routes are limited. So, I pulled the boat out of the marina and parked it in front of one of the houses on Salomar Beach." "Why didn't you tell me this when I came to your house earlier?" I asked. "My mom was there, and I didn't want to worry her," Sam says calmly. "She doesn't know what you're doing." He shakes his head. "I've got this under control." He slides the car to a hard stop and parks it beneath one of the few street lights on the PCH. He opens the car door. "You ready, Kate?" "Wait, we shouldn't park here," I press. "It would be easy for Dane to spot us." Kate sighs. "We need to park Sam's car someplace highly visible. When he sees it, he'll stop. He'll look for me around here. He'll waste time checking to see if I went inside one of the houses. Or he'll check to see if I went up into the hillsides. And if he thinks to look for me on the beach, he won't know which way I went. It's at least a half mile from here to the boat on Salomar Beach." "I say we'd be closer if we parked at your house, Sam." Sam's face hardens. "I don't want Dane to think for even one second that Kate is at my house. That puts my parents in danger. On the beach, we also have the advantage of a new moon," he says confidently, nodding toward the skies. "The night is totally dark, and I know this beach better than anyone. It's a smart plan, but my heart knocks hard with fear. And not just about Dane. I'm not prepared for any of this. I'm not in great shape. I've never run from anyone or anything. I'm afraid that I'll let Kate down." "Let's go," Sam says, getting out the car. Kate and I follow suit and run across the highway, avoiding approaching cars, then head down a narrow access road. My eyes dart and shift at every shadow. The swish of the sand beneath our feet sounds impossibly loud. Then the sandy road opens to the beach, and my breath whooshes from my lungs at the beautiful distraction the skies and the ocean offer. The sea ripples peacefully at odds with my racing heart as the tide rolls to the shore. For a moment, the harsh reality of our situation is in sharp contrast with the breathtaking view. I linger for a moment, but Sam waves at me with shaky hands. "Keep going." We walk at a swift pace beneath a starry sky on a moonless night, the waves lapping at our feet. In a low whisper, Sam points out a few constellations and reminds Kate how she can use the North Star for navigation if the GPS stops working. They've thought of everything. In the darkness, Kate slips her hand into mine and then Sam's voice fades into the surf. I'm only aware of Kate and the sensation of walking by the ocean through the night with her. The beach at least gives us the illusion of safety. On the right is the vast ocean and endless horizon. And on the left is a smattering of quiet beach houses, their lights from within spilling only the faintest glow. Some of the homes have steel seawalls to protect them from the surf, while others have piles of rocks. Every one of them has a set of stairs that lead from the beach below up to the house, offering possible escape routes if we need them. The first time around, I'd returned home after our time together on the beach and gone to sleep, thinking how happy I was, assuming Kate and I were becoming a couple. I'd slept peacefully, oblivious that Kate was in danger and that her friend, not me, would be giving her a boat and a gun as protection. Why hadn't she confided in me? Why hadn't she let me help? It feels unfair to ask her anything when we're making her escape. But the question will otherwise haunt me forever. "Why didn't you tell me about Dane?" "I like you, Andy, a lot." Her gaze drops to her hands as she gathers her thoughts. "I have this feeling that I could fall for you in time. I want to be someone you could fall for, too. Someone without an ugly past or an uncertain future." How much of the first days of dating is convincing the other person that you're precisely the someone who's missing in their life? How much effort we put into telling them how idyllic and comfortable our lives are so that we don't scare them with the truth of who we really are. In the same way Kate has kept this secret, I'd hidden my depressing self. The person whose emotions hinged on whether my writing was going well or how book sales were going. I'd pretended that I didn't drink too much or spend too much time lying around my apartment in a pathetic spin. Instead, I'd spent the week selling her on a brighter, happier, better version of me. Is it any surprise that she would do the same with the truths in her past? As we walk toward the boat, the uncertainty of what lies ahead for us weighs heavily on me. A faint rustling sound like someone stepping lightly on the sand behind us makes me spin around, heart racing. But in the endless stretch of beach, I don't see anything. I tell myself that it's just the wind or the sand shifting in the breeze. My imagination running wild. But no matter how hard I try, I can't shake the feeling that we're not alone. The boat feels miles away. I pull closer, every nerve on high alert. There it is again. A flicker of movement just out of the corner of my eye behind one of the giant rocks that shield the homes from the surf. I stop, staring, my heart hammering. I step forward to get a closer look, but there's nothing there. Just shadows. A trick of the light or lack of light. "You okay?" Kate asks. "Fine," I lie, my voice tight. I know she's on edge, too. Her grip on my hand is tighter now. I listen now. Every sound, every whisper of wind, every rush of surf, trying to hear anything that doesn't belong. But the waves are too loud. They swallow every sound. The boat's not far. Just a little farther. That's what I tell myself to try to steady the pounding in my chest. Kate's breathing matches mine. Quick and shallow, her eyes darting around like she's expecting something to step out from the shadows. We round a rugged bend in the beach, a spot known as Pitus Point. The water rises and the waves grow higher, more violent. Ahead, I see a crackling bonfire on the beach. A small group, their faces bathed by the gentle glow, gathers around it on chairs and blankets. Their laughter and singing carry on the wind. A momentary relief from the panic. "We'll want to stay away from that," Sam says quietly. "Walk in the surf, not on the sand, far enough away that they don't notice us. Everyone is a possible threat. The people by that bonfire could later mention they saw Kate walking down the beach, innocently leading Dane right to us." We step into the surf and the chill bites at my ankles. The tide is rolling in and the waves surge forward, slamming us with brutal force. The cold Pacific Ocean crashes around us, threatening to suck us under. I steady myself, grasping Kate's hand tightly to keep us from falling in, pulling her back as another wave hits. The ground beneath my feet vibrates with each thunderous crash of the waves that pummel us again and again. Then Kate's hand slips out of mine. I turn, my heart stopping cold. She's gone. I whirl around and there he is, shadowed in the gray light, maybe 6 ft away. One thick hand clamps over Kate's mouth. The other grips her neck. She struggles, eyes wide with terror. I can't move. He fixes a baleful stare on me. "Unless you want to end up dead. Keep going." My heart hammers. I can't breathe. I finally suck in a breath and a thought strikes terror in my chest. This is why I never see her again. She dies because of him. I step out of the surf and take a few steps forward. Close enough that I can see his stringy blonde hair, his glassy eyes. My pulse pounds. I'm not a fighter. I haven't thrown a punch or a kick since a fight I'd lost on the middle school playground. But when I see the fear in Kate's eyes, I know I must do something. I lunge at him. At the moment of impact, Kate tears herself from Dane's grasp, then swiftly whirls around. She throws a kick at his groin and hits it square on. Dane staggers back in shock. "Bitch," Dane says sloppily, then regains his balance. "You won't get away with this." He tears at her like a wild animal, a snarl escaping his lips. She's faster, though. She hits him with a punch and kick that surprise him, allowing her to escape. She scrambles up the sandy slope toward the concrete steps to a beachfront home. I chase after her, and then my body is jolted by an intense pressure in my skull. Sharp pain shoots down my spine to my toes. The ocean scent is gone, and in its place is the smell of a foul sewer. I hear voices. Before I can make out what they're saying, I ascend into darkness. I'm returning to the future.

Chapter 28. Brooke.

11:08 p.m. The ping of my phone startles me from a deep sleep. "Can you come get me?" My skin tingles with alarm when I realize it's Olivia's voice on the other end. I sit up. As soon as Olivia was picked up for her sleepover at her friend Ila's house, I'd been overcome with a spell of vertigo and sudden exhaustion. My shoulders felt impossibly heavy, and I felt fuzzy as I ambled to my bedroom to lie down a moment, hoping it would pass. I'd fallen asleep on top of the covers, fully dressed. I glance at my phone. 11:08. I've been asleep for 2 hours. If I stay off the PCH, I won't hit Sam and Logan with my car. I won't be a murderer. But any excitement I feel about that possibility is pushed aside by worry for Olivia. "What's going on?" I ask. "I'm scared," she says, crying. "I want to come home." "Here's Mrs. Phillips." I hear the shuffle of the phone changing hands, and Ila's mom comes on. "Hello, Brooke." "Reena, what's going on?" "We had a scare. The police came, but it's all clear now. I've been trying to get Olivia and Ila back to sleep, but it's not working. I wanted her to talk to you." "The police came for what?" She tries to sound calm, but I hear the tremor in her voice. "Someone came onto the property. The dog started barking like crazy, which woke all of us up. We looked out the window and saw a woman hiding on the deck behind the hot tub. Then all of a sudden, a man came up the stairs from the beach, found the woman, and they were fighting. That's when the girls started screaming. I took them away from the window and called 911. When police got here, the two were gone." "Are the girls okay?" "They're shaken up, but safe. They were never in any danger." "I'd bring her home for you, but Jacob is finally back to sleep." "Oh, no. I understand." Jacob is an infant, maybe 6 months old at this point. Reena's a divorced mom, and she's told me about his sleep problems, so there's no way she'll be able to drive Olivia home. "Olivia wants to talk with you again," Reena says. "Here she is." I hear fumbling again. Then Olivia's voice comes back on. "Mommy, can you come now?" she sobs. "My tummy doesn't feel good. I'm terrified." Reena's home is at Pitus Point on Faria Beach, and the only way to get there is via the PCH. Unless I had a helicopter, there's no other route. The ocean is on one side. The PCH is the other. "Did you hear me?" she says, sniffling. "I'm really scared." "Give me a minute to pull my things together and I'll be there. Don't worry. Everything's going to be okay."

>> Chapter 29. Logan.

11:12 p.m. I'm at the bonfire on the beach, not in the bike lane. I'm pounding back water and staying away from the PCH. As before, I'm stone cold sober at a party where everyone else has been doing shots of tequila or bourbon and everything else. I'd been indoors earlier and was getting agitated, wanting to get away from all the temptations that were everywhere. So, I headed out to the bonfire. I was fine until two drunk guys popped onto the sand across from me and began irritating the hell out of me. Both trying to remember the words to a Kodak Black song. "We could be superstars, but I'm pretty sure time is up." That's the actual words, but they keep messing up, tangling the words, laughing, then stumbling through more attempts. No matter how bad their singing gets, I'm not moving from this spot. I glance at my phone and smile. 112. If I stay off the PCH, I get to live a life with my body intact. In a few hours, I'll begin my double metric century ride. I'll return home in time to see Haley after she gets off work. This is the life I want. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot someone running along the beach. He's shouting something, but with the roar of the waves, I can't hear what it is. "What the heck?" one of the drunk guys says. The man races through the sand toward the bonfire, a blur in the inky darkness. The flashlight on his smartphone is on, but its dim rays are pointless on the dark beachfront. He races toward us. "Kate!" he shouts. "Sam!" My heart thuds to a stop. "Have you seen a girl?" he asks us, his voice frantic. "Dark hair." "What is going on?" Elizabeth had promised me she'd keep Sam away from the PCH tonight. "You shouldn't be here," I shout. The Kodak Black singer with his hat cocked to the side answers, "I saw a girl a few minutes ago. She came down from that house." He points down the beach a little and ran into this one." He gestures to EMTT's beach house. Sam races toward EMTT's house and my heart starts beating a million times a minute. "Wait!" I shout. "Want me to check the beach again with you?" His voice shakes. "She's got to be up here," he says, then bounds up the wooden staircase. I sprint up the stairs behind him. His eyes frantically scan the crowded deck, searching for someone amidst the pulsing music and laughter. Then he weaves through the party, dodging groups of chatting guests and pivoting around scattered beach towels and chairs. Sam stops. Whoever he's looking for isn't here. He locks eyes with me. "Are you following me?" "I'm trying to help. Who are you looking for?" "She's not here." He points toward the side of the house. "Where's that go?" My blood freezes to the PCH. "Don't go there." "She must have gone that way." Sam charges toward the side of the house. Ahead of him, there's a wooden gate at the end of the narrow passageway that creates a barrier from the Pacific Coast Highway. I know EMTT's family always keeps it locked from the highway side, not the inside. "Stop," I shout at him, but that only seems to make him run faster. My hands are clammy with fear, but I managed to push in front of him, blocking his way. "What the hell is your problem?" He shoves me hard, his strength surprising me. "Don't go out there. It's not safe." Sam's face gets super red fast. Then, with what seems like impossible strength, he pushes me again. "Get out of my way. I'm trying to help someone." He yanks open the gate and races toward the highway. I think I can grab him. That's what my panicked brain believes. I'm strong and quick enough to tackle him. I can pin him on the ground.

Chapter 30. Brooke.

11:23 p.m. When I end the call with Olivia, numbness creeps into my fingers and a sudden wave of dizziness makes the room spin. I steady myself by the kitchen sink and gulp down a glass of water. When the room finally stops spinning, I grab my keys and head to the car. I tell myself the accident won't happen if I get on the PCH. For one thing, Sam won't be anywhere near there. I have no doubt Elizabeth has made sure of that. Logan won't be on the highway either. Besides, it's later in the night. The first time around, the accident was around 11:13. By the time I get to that stretch of highway, it'll be nearly 20 minutes later. I manage to drive normally until I pull onto the entrance ramp to the PCH. Then my head pounds and my throat closes. No one is behind me, so I slow the car and remind myself that Logan and Sam are not on the PCH. The highway follows the natural coastline, and since straight lines are rarely found in nature, there are only brief stretches which aren't twists and turns. Because of the new moon, the sky is shrouded in darkness, devoid of any comforting light, and its absence casts deep shadows everywhere. The landscape that's familiar in daylight now blends seamlessly into the backdrop of the night. I drive slowly, gripping the wheel tight, eyes locked on the stretch of asphalt ahead. Occasionally, a soft glow spills through the windows of the houses I pass, momentarily illuminating the darkness. My imagination plays tricks on my mind, conjuring ghosts and phantoms lurking beyond the reaches of my headlights. Every curve and bend in the road seems to conceal lurking dangers. "It's okay. Logan and Sam are not on the highway." A clock begins ticking in my head, counting down the seconds until I reach the place where it happened, where Sam's and Logan's and my life ended. "Pay attention." My eyes grow hot, tears threatening. I take my foot off the gas and scan the dark highway, feeling restless and dizzy. Everything is happening too fast.

Chapter 31. Logan.

11:30 p.m. One push through the wooden gate to the highway and I see her. A girl in a gauzy white blouse and jeans. The figure I thought I'd imagined. She's standing by the highway, her hair blowing in the furious wind, her chest heaving. A bright red stain blooms at her neckline, and a wound slashes across her left cheek. The whole image has the fading texture of a dream. Then I hear the sharp crack of a twig, a furious rustle of leaves. Like an apparition living in the trees beside the highway, a man appears out of the gloom. He lunges for the girl and grabs her in a chokehold. His voice is like a drill, sharp and menacing. "You should never have run away." Seconds later, Sam's on him, yanking on the man's arms, prying them off her. He kicks the shadow man, and the girl tears out of the man's grasp, kneeing him in the stomach and breaks free. She races across the highway, but the man from the shadows is fast and thuds behind her. Sam takes off after them. Then I see the car lights surfacing on the horizon, rounding the curve, blinding everything in its path. "Stop, Sam!" I shout, my breath coming in jagged spurts. I grab for him, using every fiber of my strength to stop him from entering the highway. My fingers pull at his clothing, but I only end up grazing the back of his shirt. I'm not fast enough. I'm too late. Then everything goes silent. My head feels like it's splitting in two. Suddenly, the highway becomes dark as hell. It's impossible to breathe in all that darkness. I'm returning to the future. Then I'm covered in every scent imaginable. Oranges, lemons, sardines. As everything I know fades away.

Chapter 32. Brooke.

11:32 p.m. A shift in the darkness draws my focus. A swish of movement. Is something there? I slam on the brakes and for the first time I see two figures, two human figures dart across the highway. I yank the steering wheel hard and swerve to avoid them. And the car lurches and swings, narrowly missing them. It feels like the car has taken on a life of its own. Unpredictable, out of control. The next moment, I hear the thump, thump as I hit something in the bike lane. I slam on the brakes and skid for what seems like an eternity. When I finally stop, my heart is pounding so hard I start to cry. I tried it all differently this time. I slam on the hazard lights, grab my phone, then leap out of the car. Everything around me feels liquid, unreal. The silence is deafening. The only sound is the fevered crunch of my feet on the gravel and the sounds of the surf in the distance. In the dim light, I scan for the people who'd raced across the highway, but there's no sign of them. Are they lurking in the shadows? An eerie stillness hangs heavy in the air. I hear the rustle of movement in the trees, but there's no time to investigate. Sam and Logan are lying in the bike lane. I know it's them even from this distance. In my whirling terror, I call out their names softly. And when they don't move, I shout for help. I stumble awkwardly to Sam first, summoning a desperate prayer that he's still alive. Hot shame constricts my chest. I press 911 on my phone and drop it on the asphalt with the speaker on. I hear my panicked voice telling the dispatcher to send help. I can still make this outcome different. I can. I drop to my knees, place a finger on his wrist, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. I want to believe there will be a pulse. I try again, placing my fingers on his neck, but feel nothing. I check if he's breathing, but his chest is not rising or falling. I get into position for CPR, determined to revive him. I'd taken a course once, but in my panicked state, it's taking too long to remember the sequence of steps. As I lean over his body to begin the compressions, an icy chill rips through my body, then another. Suddenly, I can't hear anything except my own breathing. My sight disappears and in its place is a hallucination. James is waving a paper at me and speaking to me with my mother's voice. Then I see purple bursts of color with thousands of interconnected threads like I'm watching my neural pathways at work. My thoughts drift and ramble. I feel the pathways connect to galaxies and see that we're all just one with each other.

Part Three, The Return.

Chapter 33. Logan.

When I first come to, all kinds of alarms are shrieking and blaring. And the small room I'm in, lined with white curtains, is jammed with people in blue scrubs racing around. "Don't panic, Logan. We've got everything under control," a nurse says, touching my hand. "You're back in the present." Within a minute, the monitors begin beeping, a steady rhythm, and the same nurse with hazel eyes asks me a few easy questions. My name, birth date, and address. When I answer them, she says, "And you're probably feeling a bit groggy, but give it time and you'll feel like yourself again." After she and the others scurry out, I succumb to magical thinking. I'm completely still, allowing myself final moments to believe that the return has reset my body and that I'm the way I was in the past, strong and unbroken. I instruct my legs to move. And when they don't, I'm struck with terror so intense that my arms tremble. I'm unable to move from the waist down. There's no feeling in my legs. I can't wiggle my toes. Instead, my feet are covered in bright orange hospital socks, an ugly reminder of all I've lost. A wave of helplessness washes over me. Everything I had in the past is gone. The Aon scientists had told us that our trip to the past cannot change the future, but I'd hoped that it would be different for me somehow. My eyes well with tears. Damn, my fear is greater than it was 3 years ago when I first realized I was paralyzed. At least then there was still the possibility, slim as it was, that I'd recover and walk again. Now I have nothing. I'd have been better off never taking this jump. I could have used the money to relax on the white sand beaches of Hawaii or gazed at the northern lights in Finland or gaped in awe at the Grand Canyon. Instead, I'm a hell of a lot more

Broke and with nothing to show for it except memories. I push aside the memories and focus on my breathing, trying to slow it down. Then the nurse returns and I spend the next half hour trying to suck down a liter of blue hydrating gel she insists will make me feel better. What's wrong with me can't be cured with a gel.

A few minutes later, two nursing assistants come in and transfer me out of bed and into a wheelchair. I roll over to the window. The view is the bleak sight of a hulking black hanger, but it beats being stuck dead bug style on the hospital bed. Then the memories slide in. No surprise that they start with Haley. Her soft smile, her lips on mine. I've lost that, too. All too soon that memory fades. And in its place is the heat of the bonfire on the beach during those last minutes. Two guys singing. We could be superstars, but I'm pretty sure time is up. Then I remember my first glimpse of Sam. The gripping terror of realizing that we share a destiny he never knew. And yet, even armed with the knowledge of what our future held, I was powerless to stop it. I've gained nothing from my jump. I'm exactly where I was before. Nothing more.

The sun sets and darkness settles outside my window until the hanger across from me fades into the black. I remember something Marco always said when we both had hit the wall and our swim time stopped improving. "It's not what you look at that matters," he'd said. "It's what you see." Maybe I'm looking at this all wrong. I know things now. Stuff I didn't understand before the jump. I know why Sam ran onto the highway that night. Well, some of it. I know he was trying to help that girl Kate escape from the man with bloodshot eyes. I don't know much about what happened before that or after, but it's something. Elizabeth has spent years wondering why Sam was there. What drove him to step onto the dark highway in front of a speeding car at the same moment I was there. She'll need to hear that Sam didn't die because of any cruel words she said to him before he left that night. His last minutes were spent trying to save someone. She'll want to know.

I wheel over to the corner of the small room, if you can call it that, and push back the white curtain that serves as a door to whatever is outside. I'm not in a real hospital, at least it doesn't look like one. Instead, it's a cavernous hanger with sections cordoned off by tall white hospital curtains. The facility is filled with the sound of beeps and tones and the hum of people, doctors, nurses, technicians rushing around or in conversation. There are phones ringing, several of them, which no one seems to answer. "Where do you think you're going?" a voice says. I turn to look, and a nurse with bright red lipstick and a coffee stain on her blue scrubs glares back at me. "I'm looking for Elizabeth Saunders," I say. "What for? Has she been extracted, too?" She moves to block my way. "You need to stay in your room until you're discharged." She softens as she grabs hold of the push handles on my chair. "Here, let me help you." "You don't understand. I need to tell her something." "We need you to stay where you are," she says. The way she looks at me makes me worried. Did Elizabeth make it back safely? "Let's get you back to your room," she says, pushing me back where I came from.

Chapter 34. Andy.

"No, don't go." I hear someone shouting, then realize it's my own voice. The world spins around me in a hazy dream. Then I wake hours later and realize I'm in a hospital bed being shuttled around down hallways, I think, under fluorescent lights. There are a battery of tests and scans. What seems like minutes later, but probably has been hours, I finally awaken in a space drenched in artificial light and surrounded by white curtains. A doctor with a husky voice and a Tom Celic mustache asks, "Do you know what day it is?" "I don't." "Do you know where you are?" I assume I'm at Aon Expeditions, but this makeshift room beeping with monitors looks more like a hospital than the massive hanger I've departed from. "Are you in any pain?" My head hurts, but a deeper pain tears at my heart. "I want to go back." "We hear that a lot," he says without looking up from his laptop. "You don't understand. I have to go back to what, though?" To the beachfront where Dne was racing after Kate. "The most important thing you can do right now is rest."

After the doctor is satisfied with my test results, he steps out and I catch my reflection in the mirror on the table beside the bed. Deep circles around my eyes. Pale skin, crazy hair, the beginnings of a scraggly beard. A dark storm of dread engulfs me. Kate's dead. That's the only explanation that makes sense. She didn't survive Dne's assault. She didn't make it. That's why she never responded to my emails or calls. Why I never heard from her again. The grief is suffocating, but it's the anger that threatens to consume me. Anger not just directed at Dne, but also at myself for not seeing the truth sooner. I roll on my side and fold over in pain.

The memories flood back, sharp and clear. The beach at night, holding Kate's hand as we walked to the boat. The nightmare unfolding before my eyes. A surreal scene as Dne rose from the shadows, tearing Kate away from me before I could even comprehend what was happening. The memory is shattered by a faint ringing from somewhere nearby. It's not the bedside monitor, a silent sentry monitoring my vital signs. It seems to be chiming from a drawer in the nightstand. I remove the pulse oximter from my finger, slip out of bed, and open the drawer. Inside, in a plastic bag are all the personal items I'd brought with me when I arrived for the jump a week ago: car keys, wallet, phone, hoodie. The phone is ringing. Jonathan's name flashes on the screen. I answer.

"Hey, Jonathan." "I'm betting you look like [ __ ]," he says with a laugh. "And probably feel like it, too." "Both," I say, brightening at the sound of his voice. "At least they're letting this call go through." "Why wouldn't they? The story's been all over the news. Did you know there were four of you stranded in the past? They're calling you the memory collectors. Reporters are going to fight to get your story. Luckily for you, none of them have your cell phone number." "Wait, slow down. How'd reporters find out we were stranded?" "The husband of one of the memory collectors, Brooke, is some big shot lawyer. When she didn't return after the usual hour and Aon didn't have any answers for him, he went to the media. When they discovered that four of you were stranded, the story exploded. Overnight, the jump experience most of us could only dream about became extremely dangerous." "The good news," he says, his tone lifting, "is that your book, He's Gone, is blowing up. Top of the bestseller lists again." I steady myself on the edge of the bed. "What?" "Y'all are household names now. We've been hearing about the memory collectors non-stop every day for the past week. For a while there, all we heard was constant chatter that they wouldn't ever be able to get you back. Good thing they did. How are you feeling?"

I pause, trying to figure out where to start. I huff out a shaky breath. "Jonathan. I found her." He sighs. "Kate." My voice catches. "She's dead now. That's why I never heard from her again." "Back up. Explain." My throat tightens. "She'd fled to Ventura to escape her ex. He'd tried to kill her. The guy had insane tracking skills and followed her all the way from Michigan. There was no escaping by car. He'd hunt her down. So, we planned for her to take a boat to Anacopa Island. But just as we reached the boat, he came out of nowhere and ripped her away from me." The line crackles with tension. "Holy hell. What did you do?" Then I was extracted. I hear him blow out a long breath. "You think he?" He trails off. Even he doesn't want to say the words aloud. My voice trembles. "Every moment I thought she'd just ghosted me and walked away. The reality is she was dead." His response is barely above a whisper. "Oh man. I'm sorry." My anger gives way to grim focus. "That means he's still out there living his life like nothing happened. I'm not going to let him get away with it."

Chapter 35. Elizabeth.

My body is connected to a jumble of machines, each of them tracking and blinking and beeping out vital information about me. But as I resurface, those sounds are muted by a man's voice close to my ear. I can't make out what he's saying. Then the words slowly come into focus. "Elizabeth, can you hear me?" My eyes are heavy, as if my lashes have been glued together. It takes some effort to pry them open. And when I do, I see my ex, Mark, standing beside the bed between two men in white lab coats. "You're safe now," Mark says, reassuring me. Even his comforting tone, a voice that I'd once loved, cannot soothe me. I'm safe. That's true. But in the present, a waterfall of pain and grief washes over me. I feel Sam's absence as if a physical part of me has been ripped away. The room seems to spin as I grapple with the cold reality of this moment. Sam is gone. I knew that I couldn't stay in the past forever. Still, it doesn't make it easier to accept. I blink away hot tears, and when I look up, I see them mirrored in Mark's eyes. "Would you give us a minute?" Mark asks the men. The taller one takes note of whatever is on the monitors by my bedside. "We'll wait outside."

In the silence as the doctors exit, Mark reaches out, his hand hovering briefly before it rests gently on mine. It's a simple gesture, but it somehow grounds me. Once the door closes, I notice a softness in his gaze, a tenderness I don't remember. Has he changed? Or is it me who's seeing things differently? "We had problems getting you back, but you're okay. Stable now." His hands have a slight tremble to them. "When you're feeling better, I want to hear everything about Sam." How does he know I saw Sam? If our jumps are to random dates, as we've been told, I could have easily jumped into a time when Sam wasn't born yet, or jumped to a time when Sam was already gone. But Mark seems to know that I was with Sam. "How do you know I saw Sam?" He scans the monitor beside me. "We should have you out of here as early as tomorrow morning." "What went wrong, Mark? Why were we stranded?" He hesitates. "Every time we tried to extract any of you, the system malfunctioned. Eventually, we realized it was because your paths kept crossing." "What do you mean?" "I didn't meet any of the others until days after we were stranded. Our monitors showed that you and Andy Shapiro crossed paths in the first hour." I shake my head. "I was on a walk with Sam during the first hour. I never saw Andy." He was there. I searched my memories of that first night with Sam and remember the man carrying champagne who complimented Sting. I was so focused on Sam, I didn't notice what he looked like. That must have been Andy. "Our failure to extract you brought the company to a grinding halt. I put rotating crews working around the clock and across the globe to reconfigure the machines. We suspended thousands of trips." It sounds like a herculean task that only someone as smart and resourceful as Mark could overcome, as he tells me about the countless hours devoted to bringing us back and the technical hurdles they overcame. All I can think is that this crisis gave me more time with Sam. "When you get back home," he says, his eyes are steady, as if he's trying to make them say something that his words can't. "I need to tell you something important." A shift in the bed. "What is it?" "Could I come by with dinner tomorrow?"

Chapter 36. Brooke.

When I step out of the Aon hanger into the bright sunlight the next morning, the harsh reality hits me hard. I'm back in the present with all the same problems I had before. A husband and daughter who barely speak to me. Friends who avoid me. It's not their fault, of course. I can barely look any of them in the eye. After I was released from jail, I'd avoided meaningful conversations and sought out solitude. The guilt at what I'd done eating at me every day. Facing them means grappling with the enormity of what I'd done.

I spot James and Olivia across the parking lot, waiting by our car. He's leaning against the hood, hands shoved in his pockets, staring at the ground. When he sees me, he straightens and waves, offering a tentative smile. My heart aches at the sight of him. He looks older, tired. Olivia's eyes are wide, filled with a mix of uncertainty and curiosity. I've only been away a week, but I swear she's grown. As I make my way to the car beneath a bright blazing sun, the asphalt feels hot beneath my feet. I take a deep breath, steadying my shaking hands. I'm going home, but home feels empty and uncertain.

"Hey," James says, his tone soft but guarded. "Are you okay?" "Not a scratch on me," I say a little too brightly. He opens the passenger door for me and I slip into the seat. Inside the car, the AC blasts away the August heat. James's hands flex on the steering wheel, and in the rearview mirror, I catch Olivia leaning forward slightly, like she's wanting to ask questions, but holding herself back. "The news said," Olivia starts, then stops. She's been watching the coverage, of course. "I'm okay," I say quickly, turning to look at her directly. "Really okay. They've taken good care of us." James nods, swallowing hard. "When Aeon said they couldn't bring you back," his voice trails off, and I see him grip the wheel tighter. "Well, we've been worried." "What did you do there?" Olivia asks. With all that time, I glance at her in the rearview mirror, catch a glimpse of the little girl who used to tell me everything. Now her eyes hold something harder. Caution. I want to tell them everything about meeting Logan and talking with Sam. About reliving the accident. But where do I begin? The words tangle in my throat. I'm not entirely ready to talk about it. My voice comes out horsearo. I clear my throat. Try again. "I learned things I didn't expect. I'm still trying to process." "We'll give you time to adjust," James says, and I hear the effort in his voice, the attempt to bridge this canyon between us. When I dare to look at him, his expression surprises me. The guardedness is still there, but underneath it is something gentler. Something that reminds me of before. "You've been through a lot." What he doesn't say hangs between us. We've all been through a lot, long before this past week. But for now, maybe it's enough that I made it home.

The rest of the drive home is quiet, except for the hum of the engine. I notice James avoids the PCH, taking the back roads instead. Perhaps he remembers my fear of that highway ever since the accident. Or maybe he just thinks this way is faster. Every few minutes, I feel Olivia's eyes on me, checking, making sure I'm still here. I want to tell her I'm not going anywhere. But those are words I've said before, promises I've broken before.

When we arrive home, the place is the same yet different, like a memory that's faded at the edges. James leads the way to the front door, and our neighbor, Mrs. Chen, waves from her garden, trying not to stare. I wonder how many reporters have been by. "Welcome home," James says, stepping aside to let me enter first. I catch the slight crack in his voice. He busies himself with putting away his keys and sunglasses, a familiar ritual. I stand in the entryway, not quite sure what to do. On the side table, I spot a stack of newspapers, all with headlines about the memory collectors. How many mornings did they sit here scrolling through news about us, wondering? "I've missed you both," I say. "Me too," Olivia says, but she's already drifting toward her room, her backpack clutched like a shield. 5 days of worry don't erase years of learned caution. "Are you hungry?" James asks, moving toward the kitchen. "I recognize this," his need to do something practical, something normal when everything else feels uncertain. "They gave us lunch at AON." "I have some homework to do," Olivia says, heading to her room. Homework? Of course. School started while I was gone. Yet one more thing in her life that I'd missed. "And I have a trial starting tomorrow morning, so I'm going to put in a few hours." James's voice trails off as he gestures vaguely toward his office. "I'll be in here if you need me." They peel away to their separate corners of the house, leaving me standing in our living room.

I click on the TV and a story about the memory collectors splashes across the screen. The headline on the news ticker at the bottom reads, "Memory collectors return home." Aon attempted to organize a press conference where the memory collectors would reassure the public about the safety of the travel process. A ballroom full of reporters wanted proof that we've returned healthy and unharmed, eager to talk to the four who've become household names this past week. We all said no. We were exhausted and wanted to go home. We didn't want our lives inspected and picked apart by the public, especially me. I know the questions everyone will ask. "You've served time in prison for vehicular manslaughter and vehicular assault. How were you qualified to take this trip?" I don't want reporters to scrutinize and rehash every detail of my worst moments without interviews with any of us. Reporters can only guess what our experiences were like. But that doesn't stop them from endless coverage.

The screen flashes to images of the four of us. They show Logan in what appears to be a mug shot from when he was several years younger. Is that all they could find for him? The photo of Elizabeth shows her standing by her then husband Mark Saunders, founder of Aon, holding hands and walking through a park ablaze with fall colors. Andy's photo is from a book signing of his novel He's Gone. Mine is an older headsh shot from years ago when I opened Celeststeine. My smile radiates joy at the promise of my life ahead before my mistake. Then my worst nightmare unfolds. Video from the scene of the accident fills the screen. Flashing lights of ambulances and police cars in a surreal mosaic of red and blue. The somber faces of the first responders. The stark outline of Sam's covered body on the stretcher. I click off the TV. Even when I tried to prevent the accident that killed Sam and paralyzed Logan, I couldn't stop it from happening. My car still hit them. I still hit them. Is it impossible to escape fate? No matter what I did, the accident happened anyway. Could it be that some things in life are simply beyond our control? There was one difference, though. The first time around, I kept driving down the highway. I didn't stop and assess the situation or try to help. I continued on without looking back. The second time, I made the choice to change how I responded. I stopped. I tried to fix it. That single choice has given me the closest thing to clarity I felt in a long time. Instead of running in shame as I did the first time, I focused on what I could control. I wonder, could I apply this in the present, too?

I flick the TV back on. As I listen to the reporter go on about the memory collectors, an idea forms, a crazy one, perhaps. I scroll on my phone to find an email from Aon Expeditions, the one pleading with the four of us to do the press conference. All our email addresses are in it. I send a message to the other three memory collectors, inviting them to come to Celeststeine for a dinner together on Wednesday. I tell them that we'll start with a delicate amused bouch of seared scallops drizzled with a citrus infused sauce. I'd been experimenting with a rack of lamb and finishing with chocolate lava cake. But it's not really about the meal. "There's so much we all need to understand about August 25th," I write. "There are things I want to express that I should have said long ago." As soon as I press send, doubts creep in. It is a crazy idea, maybe even pointless. Would they even accept an invitation from the person who destroyed their lives? Even if they do, what will I say to them?

Chapter 37. Andy.

I'm on the hunt for Dne Reynolds. And when I find him, I'll bring him to justice. He must pay for what he did to Kate, to Sam, to all of us. But I'm an author, not an investigator or detective or police officer. Still, I have a million plans. Call the sheriff's office, scour social media, research DNE online. I also consider hiring a private investigator. But my entire knowledge of PIs comes from reading Philip Marlo and Michael Kelly novels. Problem is in books people find PIs through referrals, friends who know them. And I can't think of anyone in Sleepy Ventura who's either a PI or likely to be friends with one.

My newfound notoriety has my phone chiming all day long. Hundreds of people have used the contact form on my author website to send me messages. Thousands of other complete strangers DM me on social media, acting as if we're friends. "Congrats on your return," a woman writes. She claims she was a couple of years behind me in college, but I don't remember knowing her. She goes on for a paragraph to update me on what she's doing and where she's living, which happens to be about an hour away in Santa Barbara. She wonders if I'd like to meet up for drinks, and attaches a photo. She's pretty with coal lined eyes and dark brown hair falling loosely to her shoulders. Others pepper me with questions about my jump, but I don't have answers for them. I'm rigid with grief. I would need paragraphs to explain what it was like to spend a week with someone you loved and later lost. I'd need an entire novel to share the ache of knowing that a love I felt just yesterday is now a long ago memory. Sometimes the flood of emails and DMs feel so overwhelming that the only escape is to write. To capture every moment from the past in words before the details slip away.

I'm in the middle of a brief writing session when a text swoops across my phone. From Lauren, smart, beautiful Lauren who once wanted to share an apartment and a dog with me. "How are you holding up? Hope all is okay." Guilt gnaws at me. My breakup with her was awkward at best. I'd never meant to hurt her, but I'd stumbled through vague explanations of our incompatibility and murky words of uncertainty. I pushed her away because I believed Kate was still alive and I wanted a past and a future with her. Now, what do I have? Nothing. Kate is dead. I'm sure of it. And after the clumsy way I handled our breakup, Lauren probably wouldn't trust a friendship with me. I type, "It's good to be back." That's a lie. Delete. "I'm doing great. Thanks for asking." Another lie. Delete. I finally settle on. "It's been tough, but working through it. How are you?" I flop on my bed and wait for her to answer. She never does.

A neighbor starts playing some classical music piece and then I forget about Lauren and memories of my time with Kate float in. I remember when the Orpheus and Uritysy music came on the smart speaker and Kate shared the story of how Orpheus made the perilous journey into the underworld to beg for his love's return. But anxiety overcomes him and he fails to bring her back. And he loses her forever. "I'd ask. He does. So his trip to the underworld was pointless?" "Or you could see it another way. Because of Orpheus, the two were reunited, however briefly. That's something." Was it enough that I got to spend nearly a week with Kate? That single thought makes the veil of grief lift for a moment. Somehow the bed I'm lying in feels like the most luxurious bed ever made. I glance over at the crap on my desk, the notepads scrolled with ideas, a pack of gum, the dogeared paperback I'd started reading months ago. And I can't help but see it as a time capsule of my present life. I think about the future and know that even this ordinary moment longing for Kate will be charged with new meaning once it becomes a memory. That is something.

Later that afternoon, I managed to schedule a meeting with Eric Ingram, commander of the Major Crimes Bureau in the Ventura County Sheriff's Office. I tell the deputy who answers the phone that I'm one of the memory collectors, and that seems to peique his curiosity enough to put me on Eric's calendar for Thursday. I go online and make reservations for two separate boat trips to Anakappa Island and Catalina Island in the hopes that I can find any evidence Kater Dane made it there. I know it's impossible that I'll discover anything so many years later, but I'm grasping at any possibility, no matter how unlikely. After that, I head to the library and search public records for Dne Reynolds. But the only matches I find are a retired seventh grade teacher and a 22-year-old manager of a cannabis dispensary in Portland, Oregon. I return home exhausted, but sleep is impossible. The white numbers on my phone glare at me throughout the early hours of the morning. 2:12 a.m., 3:17 a.m., 4:32 a.m. My thoughts tumble and roll. I think about turning my apartment into a command center, posting papers, maps, and photos on the walls connected by red threads, just like detectives do in TV shows. I consider joining some true crime forums. Maybe they can crowdsource information or help me analyze evidence if I find any. I have to do something. Blureyed at 5:02 a.m. I post on Instagram to my 11,000 loyal followers. "I am looking for a guy named Dne Reynolds, 30s, blonde hair. It's for my next novel. He worked at a paper mill in Michigan and was in Ventura, California 3 years ago. DM me if you know anything." I toss the phone on my nightstand, proud of myself for taking action, but inevitably darker thoughts emerge. And I know all of this is feudal.

Chapter 38. Brooke.

Today marks my first full day back with James and Olivia, and I'm taking small steps to reconnect. I cook an elaborate breakfast for them, recreating their favorites and experimenting with a blueberry and ricotta pancake that I'm relieved to see they enjoy. I took a note into Olivia's lunch, careful to keep it light. "Just wanted you to know that I'm thinking of you. Love, Mom." After breakfast, I join James on the porch. Our conversation drifts. He's kind but distant. He shifts in his seat, the space between us heavy with uncertainty. The only place I feel truly alive is Celeststeine. Today, I'm revising the menu, planning changes to the decor, and ordering new plates. All to signal the fresh start I desperately crave. But it's only window dressing. I'm defined by what happened that one night in August, reliving it in my every thought and action. I may think I'm a good person, but when it comes down to it, I stand behind the bar wiping down glasses, trying to help the weight staff keep up with the constant stream of new customers. I can feel the weight of the customers gazes. Some look my way, recognition sparking in their eyes. Others exchange glances, nodding discreetly in my direction. Despite my attempts to blend in by wearing the same uniform as the weight staff, black pants and blouse, I seem to be a magnet for customers attention, a figure they think they know from the stories and headlines about the memory collectors that have turned Celeststeine into a bustling hot spot.

The dinner I've planned for the memory collectors is just moments away, and a knot of anxiety has taken up permanent residence in my stomach. A young man approaches me. He's handsome and familiar, but how do I know him? Then I realize he's the only memory collector I've never met. "I'm Andy Shapiro." "Brooke," I say, shaking his hand. "I've set aside a booth for us. Let me show you." As I guide him to the table, Elizabeth strides in, an elegant scarf draped casually over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the tension roing within me. The glass I've been holding slips from my fingers and crashes to the floor. "You okay?" Andy asks. "Fine," I reply. But the way I sweep up the shards of glass in a panicked frenzy is proof that I'm not. Heat rises to my cheeks as I straighten my blouse, forcing a confident expression even as my stomach is a twisted mess. This is it. The moment I've been dreading and anticipating. How do I even begin to face her? Moments later, Logan wheels in, spots Elizabeth, and heads over to talk with her. I watch them all introduce themselves to Andy. The den of conversations whirling around them rises as the customers realize all four of the memory collectors have gathered here. A few snap photos with their phones. I consider the logistics of moving us to a private dining room, but the others don't seem to notice or mind the attention. Logan waves me over and I join them at the table, nervousness tightening in my chest. I'd orchestrated every detail of the table and the menu myself, each place setting meticulously arranged because it's the one thing that I can control. As we settle into our seats, a rush of excitement takes over. Everyone starts talking at the same time, and our conversation soon becomes a jumble of laughter, questions, and stories all tumbling out at once. It's as if we're all trying to make sense of our time in the past in a single breath. Suddenly, we all stop talking like an unseen conductor has waved her baton. I struggle to find the words of apology I'd rehearsed in my head a hundred times. I'm unsure where to begin. Elizabeth beats me to it. "Thank you for bringing us together," she says, nodding at me. "If I'm honest, I came here tonight for many reasons, but mostly to understand what happened the night of August 25th." "I think all of us have the same questions," Andy adds. Her gaze shifts between the three of us. "My son Sam left the house that night. He wouldn't say where he was going or why. I said some things I regret, words I can't take back. But even after a week in the past, I still don't know why he was on that highway in the middle of the night." "I do," Andy says to Elizabeth. "Sam was helping my girlfriend Kate. She'd fled to Ventura to escape her abusive ex, Dne Reynolds. But Dne tracked her down. Sam offered her your boat so she could escape to the Channel Islands. We were on the beach at Pais Point heading to the Moing when Dne ambushed us. He grabbed Kate, but Sam and I fought him. Last I saw before I was extracted." Kate running toward a house on the beach. "Wait," I interject, heart pounding. "Describe the house." He hesitates. "It was dark, hard to see much. It had super wide concrete steps." "That's my friend's house," I say, my voice rising. "I'm sure of it." "My daughter Olivia was at a sleepover at Pitus Point and the girls heard and saw a couple fighting right outside their window." "Kate and Dne," Andy says, face pale. "The police were called. Olivia was terrified and begged me to pick her up." I turned to Logan and Elizabeth, guilt washing over me. "That's why I broke my promise to stay off the PCH. I had to get Olivia." Andy's eyes bore into mine. "Kate, did she escape?" "I don't know." The couple had vanished by the time the police arrived. "Wait," Logan says. "She did get away from him briefly." "What do you mean?" Andy asks. A charged silence falls over us as we hang on Logan's every word. "I was at a bonfire just down from Pitus Point. I looked up and there's Sam sprinting around like a madman, shouting for someone named Kate. Some guys at the bonfire yelled that they'd seen a girl run inside the house where the party was going on. Sam searched the party, didn't find her there, so he went to check out by the highway. I tried to stop him because I already knew how this ends, but he slammed me up against the wall and pushed past me. The girl, she was there by the highway, blood on her shirt. Must have been Kate," Andy says breathlessly. "Just as Sam reached out to her, a man suddenly lunged from the shadows and grabbed her. Dne," Andy says. Logan continues, his voice low and urgent. "Sam was fast and wicked strong. He charged at the guy, but the man Dne overpowered him. Still, he gave Kate the opening she needed. She tore away from Dne and bolted across the highway. When Dne realized what was happening, he took off after her. Sam ran in pursuit." He turns to me. "That's when your car hit him." I stare at him in disbelief, my mind reeling, struggling to reconcile what I'd thought had happened with the events Logan is describing. I blink back tears, trying not to cry. "You okay?" Logan asks. "Not really," I say, wiping my eyes. "I don't think I ever will be." "What you're saying, Logan, is the two people did run across the highway in front of Brook's car." Elizabeth says, "Kate and Dne. You didn't imagine them, Brooke. They were real. That's why you swerved." "Kate and Dne. Where'd they go?" Andy demands of me. "Did you see?" "I swerve to miss them and my voice catches. I hit Logan and Sam instead." Andy's face drains of color. His gaze snaps to Logan. "Is that why?" He can't finish the sentence, just gestures at the wheelchair. Logan nods. Andy slumps back, his eyes haunted. "And Sam, what happened to him?" There's fear in his eyes as he glances from Logan to Elizabeth before finally settling on me. My hands tremble. It's hard to live with the truth about what I did. Even harder to say it aloud. "I hit Sam, too. He didn't make it." A strangled sound escapes Andy's throat, raw and primal. It seems like an eternity before he speaks. "What Sam did for Kate. I'll never forget it." Elizabeth's voice cuts through the heavy silence. "Why didn't Sam tell me he was helping Kate?" "He wasn't hiding it. He didn't want you to worry," Andy says, steadying his voice. "He was a capable guy who thought he had it under control. And we all underestimated Dne." "Did you ever see Kate again?" Brooke asks. Andy shakes his head. "Dne must have killed her. That's why I never heard from her again." An uncomfortable silence envelops us. My voice is raw. "I'm so sorry for what I did to Sam. I turned to Logan. and to you." Logan looks away for a second before turning back to me. "We're okay," he says finally. "You and me. It was an accident, a mistake. I see that now." My eyes misted over and I'm close to tears. His words are an unexpected lifeline cutting through the years of guilt and despair. I look into his eyes and there's no sign of the anger and resentment I'd seen when we met in the past. I take a shaky breath, but all I can manage is a whisper. "Thank you." Elizabeth looks down at her hands, then up at me. "I've always thought that if I were you, I'd have done it differently. If I were on that highway, I would have done it right. I wouldn't have hit Sam and Logan." We all think we know what other people should do. But I see now that each of us is going on roads only we can see. Her voice trembles, but her gaze remains steady. "I've been believing that every bad thing that happens has an easily identifiable cause. A perpetrator and a victim, guilty and innocent. I'd believe the outcome of everything is within our control. And when things don't happen the way we think they should, someone must be to blame. But I see that's not always how it is." I feel my chest tighten, my breath coming in shallow bursts. "If only I'd gone slower around the curve. Or if I hadn't swerved so sharply, none of this would have happened." Elizabeth takes a deep breath. "Everything we do, everything that happens to us, good or bad, relies on a million little moments in the past. We fool ourselves if we believe that we control every moment. But we can do something now to change our futures," Elizabeth adds, her tone softening. "What can we do?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "I can start by forgiving you." "I don't deserve that." Tears pool in her eyes and fall fast like they're bursting from a dam. She opens her mouth, but no words escape. "Could I give you a hug?" she asks finally. "She can't mean it." I shake my head. "It's not just for you," she says. "It would help me, too." She stands and I let her hug me. Her head drops and her shoulders heave. I know she's crying even though I don't hear a sound. And then I lean into her embrace and my heart cracks open. Something inside me shifts. Relief seeps into my bones. Her arms are whisper thin, but they have the power to heal me. I'd gone to the past to escape from the pain of my mistake. But I never expected that I'd find healing in the present or that these people, Logan and Elizabeth, who I once feared, and Andy, who I'm meeting for the first time, would help me recover from the worst night of my life. We are powerful and powerless. There were things I couldn't control that night and things I could, things I did and things I didn't think to do. The outcome wasn't in my control. As Elizabeth releases me, a thought slips into my mind. If these people can forgive me, maybe I can find a way to forgive myself, too.

Chapter 39. Andy.

By the time the table full of appetizers arrives, everyone has managed to compose themselves. Though our eyes are still puffy, the conversation drifts back to whether we'll all agree to do the press conference that Aon keeps texting about. We're all debating the merits of that when Logan abruptly stops the conversation. "Hold a second," he says. "We're not just going to go on like nothing happened, are we?" We all turn to look at him. His outburst seems to take everyone by surprise. "We've got to track down Dane." He says he's out there somewhere thinking he's gotten away with it because no one knows what he's done. Until now, we didn't even know. "What do you have in mind?" Elizabeth asks. "Bring him to justice, of course," Logan answers. "I'd like to see that," Brookke says. "But how would we do it?" "Exactly," Elizabeth adds. "We're not detectives." "Elizabeth, you could ask the sheriff to investigate. I say with all the attention around Aon expeditions, he'll listen to you. I've asked him for a meeting, but with your connections, I'll bet you could get him on the phone faster." She nods. "I'll call him in the morning." "I've got a friend who's a retired police officer," Brooke offers. "I can ask him to help." "I'll see what I can find online," Logan says. "I had a brush with the police a few years ago when I got pretty good at searching online public records." "We can all post on social media," Brooke adds. "And if none of that works, I could help pay for a private investigator." As everyone starts talking at once, the room buzzes with electric energy. Listening to the whirlwind of ideas, I can't help but feel a wave of gratitude. I'd just met these people, each with their own unique quirks. Yet here we are, united by a shared realization. The mystery that's been at the center of all our lives. The source of our collective pain and loss has a name. Dne Reynolds. Some of their suggestions are unconventional, even bordering on far-fetched. But that doesn't dampen my enthusiasm. For the first time, a razor thin hope slices through my doubt. Together, we might actually track down Dne Reynolds and make him pay for what he's done.

Chapter 40. Logan.

I'm reaching out to you with an offer that combines two things. I hope you appreciate good food and thoughtprovoking conversation. Enclosed with this note is a tasty sandwich made with care by the alchemists at Bob's Deli on Maine. Consider it a friendly invitation for us to sit down together and have an interview that goes beyond the ordinary. This was the note a Ventura County Star reporter sent with a pastrarami sandwich on rye wrapped in butcher paper. He's one of many reporters who text, call, and email day and night ever since we all returned. He's the only one who sent food though. I set the sandwich and notice aside. I'm not ready for any interviews. I'm still struggling with the reality of being here in the present. And yeah, I'm angry at the loss of the simplest of pleasures. The feel of solid ground beneath my feet, the freedom to move without restraint, the ability to live my life on my own terms. I wheel over to the fridge to get a drink. I open the door and gaze at the contents within. My eyes fall on the cans and bottles of IPA and hard seltzers that line the shelves. These have been my steadfast companions offering comfort in my loneliness. I pick up one of my favorites, a classic ale, and I'm about to pop it open when memories flood back. Countless mornings tinged with regret at the broken promises I made to myself that whatever favorite I was drinking would be my last. Fear whispers in my ear. This is who you are now. All you'll ever be broken, a victim of circumstances, a drunk, alone. But something inside me is shifting. I feel it. Ever since the dinner at Celeststeine, I'm beginning to wonder if there's more to me than these bottles can ever bring out. That idea seems stupid when I'm stuck here in a wheelchair again. But the past is reshaping me. It's not that I become someone different. It's as if I'm seeing my life with new eyes. The extended time during the jump forced me to meet Brooke. How many times had I replayed the moment of impact with her car? Each time fueling the inferno of my anger at her. As the weeks turned into months, and the months became years, I clung to my rage like a lifeline, unwilling to let go of the one thing that tethered me to the fragments of my former life. Anger. She turned out not to be the monster I'd imagined. Instead, she was someone who made a horrifying mistake. someone who saw movement on the highway and swerved to miss it and hit me instead. I resented her for not stopping, but now I understand that she panicked and in her weakest moment didn't do the best thing. If Brooke is more than the sum of her mistakes, could it be that I am too? Could I be more than my own weakest moments? I close the fridge door, leaving the bottles undisturbed. A victory for the hour.

The phone rings. I see who it is inside with frustration. Gary, my boss. Reluctantly, I answer. "Hey, Gary." "Logan, how you hanging?" He says casually like we were ever friends. "Man, you've been all over the news. You doing okay?" "I'm good." He uses his earnest voice now. "Lots of people were worried they couldn't bring you back, but I convinced the higherups to keep your job open for you." Sure he did. There's no way this guy asked the higherups to do anything for me. And I doubt they were planning to fire me when I'd only been gone for less than a week. "You coming back tomorrow?" he asks. A restless spark blazes within me, and the words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. "I'm not coming back." The minute I say it, I regret it. It's not like I've got anything in my bank account that will let me quit. I feel a wave of desperation. "I don't think I heard you right. What have I done? Why did I say those words without thinking them through? Take them back. That's what I'll do. Blame it on time travel fatigue." Then a feeling of freedom and a sense of clarity I haven't felt in a long time washes over me. Maybe this is the right decision. "I'm quitting," I say. "That's crazy," he says gruffly. "What other job do you think you're ever going to get?" "I don't know." "Big mistake," he says like he's the expert on my life. "Did your jump mess with your head or something or something?" I blow out of breath. Everyone knows we can't change the future when we visit the past, but I'm beginning to see that I've come back changed. "I'll upload a resignation letter." After I hang up, I bang out that letter on my laptop. I'm not usually a fast or even a good writer, but fueled by the adrenaline rush of this big decision, the words come easily. After I upload the document, I find a pen and a post-it and write, "What should I be doing?" I can't keep drifting through the days, aimless and unanchored, caught in a

cycle of monotony and anger. I can't hold on to resentment at the loss of surfing the waves, scaling towering mountains, or biking through the wildness. These activities once defined me. Am I anything more than that?

Meeting Haley changed me. When I was with her, all the things I thought I was, a thrillseeker, an adrenaline junkie, paled in comparison with being with her, talking for hours about nothing and everything all at once. I write, "Find Haley." The thought of seeking her out fills me with a mixture of excitement and dread. What if she's moved on and found happiness with someone else? What if she wants nothing to do with a guy in a wheelchair? I cross out "Find Haley."

The practical side of me knows the first thing I need is a job. And the idea of starting over in a new place fills me with fear. What if I'm not cut out for anything but a mundane courier service job? Still, I write, "Teach what I know." I crumple the note. Everything I have is gone. Feeling in my legs, Haley. And now, thanks to my impulsive words, my job. Writing Post-it notes isn't going to change anything.

But after I toss the note in the trash, I remember all the steps that I've already taken to get to this moment. I think back to the countless doctor's visits, the grueling physical therapy sessions, and the nights spent battling one health problem or another. Then the memories from the past flowed in. Trying to stop Sam from running onto that highway revealed a courage I never knew I had. Spending time with Haley helped me realize that the person I want to be is more than just what my body can do. If I'm going to break free from where I am, I've got to believe that my life is still filled with possibility. I start a new Post-it. "Find Haley. Teach what I know. Dream big."

>> Chapter 41.

Elizabeth Marks made avocado toast, a favorite of mine since the early days of our marriage. Trim and fit in a gray button-down shirt and black jeans, he moves about the kitchen and sets the food on the table on the deck as if it hasn't been 3 years since we lived together. Before he'd arrived, I swung through the grocery store, a task I've done hundreds of times before without much thought. Today, I looked up from my cart, at the cashiers, at the shelves that rise to the ceiling, and I realize nothing is the same. It's as though I've been asleep, and I'm seeing things as they are for the first time. The air is softer, colors seem brighter, faces are more beautiful. Everything about Mark seems different, too. His voice is more vibrant, full of life. He wears cologne, which he never did before. Something woodsy. He's not different, of course. It's me that's changed. I'm paying attention to things that once zipped by in a blur.

"Tell me about Sam," he says softly. His expression is the look of grief. Misty eyes, lips lightly curved up, hiding his sadness, his body rigid and still. As I speak, the roar of the waves fades away. And I talk about Sam as I remember him from yesterday. His boundless curiosity, his instinct to look out for others, brimming with life. Happy. I tell Mark about our time together, and it works like a spoken prayer. Telling our story slows me down, anchors me in the moment, giving light to the pain and grief, and makes me feel connected to Sam, even though I can't see or hear him. The more I speak, the more I feel myself rising above our grief, moving through space and time. In my memories, Sam is alive. I tell Mark about the cool ocean breeze during our walk, the warmth of Sam's voice, the way the streetlights cast shadows on the sidewalks. I can feel all the essential ordinary details of our time together. My memories themselves are a form of time travel that keeps the dark pulse of grief away. Mark is still as he listens. He too is lost in the world I'm creating with my words and memories. I tell him the things I said to Sam, and it feels as if he's with us. I feel his presence all around. Mark shares a long-ago memory when we gave baby Sam a bath in the sink so that the warm rays of the sun could whisk away the touch of jaundice he had when he was born. He illustrates his story with his hands, his fingers flying until he drops them suddenly into his lap. I feel the depth of his sadness. I lay my hand on his, let his grief twist and mingle with my own unbearable ache. And in the setting sun, our pain settles. It occurs to me then that all we gave Sam, all we did with him still remains. The baby baths, his first bicycle, the trips to the beach, camping, yuseite. They're not lost. They still exist in the ever-enduring past and in our memories.

The rain starts with a gentle pattering. I glance up, feeling the cool droplets on my skin and see a few dark clouds drifting lazily across the sky. Ventura is usually warm and dry in August, so this is a rare gift. The shower picks up a light drizzle that fills the air with a fresh earthy scent mixed with the salty tang of the ocean. Mark gathers the dishes and we race indoors. The beach house, once our home together, feels suddenly cozy. New. The raindrops patter on the palm tree leaves surrounding our house, blends softly with the steady rush of the waves. We settle on the couch together, and Mark picks up the light blanket beside me and uses it to gently dry my hair.

"After I was extracted, you said there was something you wanted to tell me," I say, catching my breath. He hesitates before speaking. "It's still a secret. Only a few of us know. A few months ago, we sent a couple to their wedding night 50 years in the past. We've cracked the code for date-specific travel to the past. The August 20th date wasn't a coincidence."

I stare at him in disbelief. "You're saying that you sent me back 3 years ago to August 20th on purpose?"

His voice barely contains his excitement. "That's how I knew you saw Sam. Why though?"

"Once I selected the date, we analyzed the millions of essays we receive each year, and we found that thousands of applicants noted that August 25th, 2025, the day Sam died, was a day their lives changed forever, too."

"What? Like the date had some kind of bad luck?"

He shares a light smile. "If you're talking to a group of scientists and engineers, the idea of bad luck is out of the realm of possibility. What we found is that every single day of the year we looked at was the same. No matter what date we chose, there were countless people who told us about loved ones they'd lost, pain they experienced, terrible news they'd been given. It made me see that loss and grief, they're part of the iron law of life. And that gave me an idea."

He continues, "What if I could change that? Not the grief and loss, of course, the experience of it. I knew it would mean everything for you to be with Sam in some of his happiest days. That was one of the best weeks of my life. Once we knew we could send up to four people to a specific date, we decided to scour the applications to find candidates. We received an application for the man who was paralyzed on August 25th, 2025. I realized then that he was the man you and I had been searching for all this time. The former drug dealer who'd been in the same accident as Sam, Logan Sandal."

The AON board had initially disqualified him because of his health issues, but once I saw the application, I convinced them to put him through.

My mouth drops open. "Why would you do that?"

"Maybe it was self-serving. I don't know. But I wanted the opportunity to find out why Sam was on that highway in the middle of nowhere with Logan."

"But you sent Brooke, too," my voice is tight. "Why would you grant her a trip when she wrecked our lives?"

"I hated her too." His voice catches. "She was disqualified because of her time in prison. But then I read her essay and I began to think that giving her this jump was a way I might try to understand why she was there that night and why she didn't stop after she hit Sam."

"Then why did you grant a trip to Andy Shapiro? He wasn't involved in the accident."

"I chose him after I read his essay. His essay was actually a short poem. He wrote it for a lost love he was seeking in the past. And I memorized it," he says, then looks away. He's silent for a long moment. I know Mark so well that when he looks away like this, it's because there's something he wants to say, but can't put into words. He's a genius at design and engineering, but words sometimes fail him in moments like this.

"You memorized his poem. Why?"

He looks out at the ocean. "Because it went like this: 'In the quiet moments, your presence lingers, a gentle breeze soothing my tired spirit. In my dreams, you appear. A fleeting vision, a spectre dancing on the edges of my thoughts. Left to wander in the shadows of your absence. I seek hope. Finding light only in the memories of you.'"

We're silent for a long moment, listening to the waves lap against the seawall. "It's beautiful," I admit, "but that's not your usual good reason to approve a highly coveted time travel spot."

"What he wrote is how I feel about losing you."

A flutter of surprise stirs in my chest. He misses me. The idea seems foolish at first, a fantasy born out of nostalgia and memory. And yet, that is what he's saying. We both lost Sam, but I also lost you. I look up at him and for a long moment all I can see is Sam. The thought of embracing the feelings that are stirring within me feels like a betrayal, as if letting go of the grief means letting go of Sam. But I cannot live in the present and the past at the same time. I reach for Mark's hand, and as my fingers close around his, I choose to live in this moment with him and embrace it for all it has to offer.

>> Chapter 42.

Andy.

The Instagram DM had been sitting in my inbox for nearly 2 hours before I saw it. The other memory collectors had promised to help, but I hadn't expected a lead to come this fast. It's from someone with the handle Reynolds107. And although the message is brief, it still manages to amp my blood pressure. "Why are you looking for Dne Reynolds?"

My chest tightens. Could this DM be from Dne? I click on the name and the link takes me to the account. Zero posts, 12 followers, 37 following. The profile photo of Reynolds107, a red pair of sneakers, tells me nothing. I type back, "Do you know where I can find him?"

While I wait for a response, I click over to my original Instagram post. Logan and Brooke have been sharing it. It's got 1,732 likes and the comments are mostly glowing. "Here's your chance to help an amazing author on his next novel." Another reader wrote, "I don't know, Dne, but I wish I did just so I could help you finish your next book. Patiently waiting." There are a few other DMs as well, but all of them are from people wishing they could help and curious what story I'm writing about a paper mill in Michigan. Was it a mystery or a love story?

A response from Reynolds107 swoops in 5 minutes later. "Why are you looking for Dne Reynolds?" My stomach plummets. Why are they repeating their question? If it's Dne, then I need a compelling reason for him to keep communicating with me. He can't possibly imagine that I know he killed Kate. He needs to believe that I'm looking for him because of something that will benefit him. But if it isn't Dne and only someone who knows him, then I need to present a compelling reason to help me find him.

I write, "I'm a best-selling author writing a novel in which the main character works at a paper mill in Kalamazoo, Michigan. I heard Dne held a similar position. Would love to talk to him to better understand the world of this important character." To sweeten the pot, I add, "I can compensate him." I'm feeling good about how I'm handling this, but I don't want to get ahead of myself. The chances of Dne Reynolds seeing my Instagram post and then DMing me here seem close to zero. This could easily be someone else with the same last name hoping to scam me into paying them for a sham story they'll make up 2 minutes later.

"Are you the Andy Shapiro that writes about World War II?" I take this as a sign that they're researching me online. That probably means they're not a reader, but someone who found the post some other way. The confusion with the other Andy Shapiro was common early in my career because there's a man by the same name from Berkshire, UK, who's written 17 books, most of them about World Wars one and two. Different guy. I wrote the NYT bestseller "He's Gone." I think about writing on my new notoriety as a memory collector, but if they're researching me online, they already know. I click send. In the unlikely event I'm communicating with Dne, I'm hoping he feels flattered enough to keep talking to me. Eventually, we can forge an online relationship and I can learn where he is. But no matter who's writing me, I'm hoping they'll see I'm a legit writer willing to pay Dne some money to tell his story. That will motivate them to share my post further.

The response surprises me. "What makes you think Dne was ever in Ventura, California?"

[ __ ] What do I say? The only reason Dne came to Ventura was to track down Kate. Probably only a few people in the world knew he was here, and two of them are dead. Sam and Kate. How would I know he was here? I consider closing the app and deleting the conversation. But the idea of not responding to whoever is messaging me is even more frightening. If it's Dne, I'm already in too deep. If he suspects I know anything about what he did to Kate, he could easily track me down in Ventura. I'm not hard to find. I make up a story. "I was talking to a boat rental guy at the harbor, telling him about the book I'm writing. He told me he'd met a guy named Dne Reynolds who worked at a paper mill in Kalamazoo. Do you know him?"

No reply. For a while, I sit at my desk, clicking back and forth between Instagram and my novel in progress, checking to see if Reynolds107 had replied or commented on my post. They hadn't. I type, "Do you know, Dne?" Then I wait. Hours pass and no response. I think about hiring a professional to figure out who owns this Instagram account. I planned to tell the sheriff, of course, although having the handle with the name Reynolds in it wasn't proof that this was Dne's account. He'd probably dismiss it as a social media troll. And he'd probably be right.

>> Chapter 43.

Logan.

All eight lanes of the pool at the YMCA are crowded. Tween boys front crawl back and forth down the cornflour blue lanes while their teammates egg them on. Everything here is in motion and loud. There's the sound of kids jumping into the pool. Laughter and coaches calling out instructions over the din. I look for my friend Marco who runs the after-school swim program. When he sees me, he turns his head and stares. He's tall, well over 6 feet, and his long neck along with his surprised expression make him look like an odd bird of prey.

"What the heck?" he shouts. I wheel over to him. It's been 3 years since I swam this pool with him, but Marco still looks much the same. Black longboard shorts that barely skim the top of his knees. Barechested even as the other coaches wear red t-shirts. A silver whistle on a chain around his neck.

"Seeing you all over the TV," he says, leaning over to give me a high five. The tang of chlorine ripples on a warm breeze. "You're probably too famous to be here."

I've got two cups of black coffee humming in my veins, so my words come out fast. "I'm here to work."

"To work? Aren't you still at the courier service?"

I hold my breath, then release it. "I quit that. I want to do this, Marco."

"You sure about this? These boys are 11, 12. They are maniacs with an endless supply of energy and jokes and pranks. It's chaos all the time." My eyes drift to a group of kids who are doing stroke drills under the careful watch of an assistant coach. Doubt creeps in. How will these kids respect me when I can't easily get in the water with them? How will I model proper form with only my upper body? Then I remind myself I'm more than just my body. I've got experience stuff to show them. I was like them once. Thought I knew everything.

He squats beside me. Deep scarring lines his hands from a boating accident when he was a kid. Regret flickers in his eyes. He knows that what he's going to say will wreck me. "A lot of people might think it's impossible for you."

A lump rises in my throat. "I know what it's like to think things only work a certain way. I've been living that for a while now. But there is another way. Something happened to you when you were stranded back there in the past."

"Maybe I found out I'm a water whisperer."

He nods. "Yeah, I can see that. Mostly, I'm seeing that who I am can't be defined by what body I have or what it can do. We're all more than that. I can show the kids that, too."

"The pay here is good, not great. You'd probably make more if you went back to the courier company and begged to get your job back."

I shake my head. "I've never been more certain of anything. I want something more."

This is tougher than leaping large boulders and scrambling through rock scree at 14,000 ft in 90° temperatures. The 50 ft separating me from the entrance of Celestine seem to stretch endlessly before me. My heart is hammering so fast it's hard to breathe. Impossible to speak. Stay focused. Commit.

I roll through the front door and my heart skips a beat when I see Haley behind the bar. She places a pink cocktail in front of a blonde woman. It's probably something she does a hundred times a shift, but here it looks like ballet. Her lips curve into a smile and then she glances in my direction. But of course, she doesn't recognize me. I look away, catch my breath. I wheel up to the bar and in a move I've practiced a thousand times, I raise myself on my arms and transfer from the wheelchair to the bar stool.

Suddenly, she's in front of me. In real life, present life. "What can I get you?" she asks, wiping down the counter.

"Tacos?" I say, my voice catching. "Tacos are kind of my love language."

Her smile falters. The line landed as badly as it could have. Still, she saves me from embarrassment. "Would you like fish or chicken?"

"Which is better?" I ask.

"Have the fish," she says. "Anything to drink?"

"Water's good."

"You got it." That's our entire conversation. Then she steps away. It was stupid to think I could get her attention now. I'm a stranger in a wheelchair. She's working and probably gets hit on all day. But I know how to suffer. I've spent hours and hours in the dark gym sweating and building muscle at 5 in the morning, working to regain my strength. I know what it means to put in the work and the hours for something you want, but everyone else thinks is impossible. I see her talking to the kitchen staff and vow to keep trying.

Then worry creeps in. Maybe her attraction to me in the past was simply because I had two legs that could hike up a mountain with her. Two legs that could kayak with her and two legs to stand beside her when I kissed her. What seems like forever later, but probably is only a minute, she comes back with the water.

"I've seen you before," she says, placing it in front of me.

"You sure about that?" I ask, rubbing my neck. "I don't want to sound weird or anything, but I—I know who you are."

Heat rushes to my face. "You do?"

"You were in the accident with my neighbor Sam." Her voice goes soft. "I still can't believe it sometimes. The reporters wrote a lot about you when they covered the accident. Before all this happened, weren't you one of the guys who climbed El Capitan in Yosemite in under two hours?"

"Yeah, I did that once."

"And not to sound creepy or anything," she says, smiling. I don't think she could sound creepy if she tried. "I saw you on the news. You're one of the memory collectors, right?"

I nod. This is the first time something positive has come out of all the media attention. "What was that like being in the past for so long?"

I draw a deep breath and gather up the courage to say something bold, something not like the usual me. "Not as good as it does to be right here with you in the present."

She meets my eyes for a second, then glances away. "I've said too much." "Let me check if your order's up," she says, then heads back to the kitchen. I messed that up. Still, I'd never been brave enough to strike up a conversation with someone like her, even when I had legs that worked. So, I got to give myself points for that. At least I'm not a stranger. She knows something about me, something positive.

She returns with a plate of tacos. "I had them leave off the beans," she says. "They cook them kind of mushy here. I could have them give you a side order if you still want them."

"I trust your judgment."

"There's this food truck by the harbor that has great tacos and beans, though. Jose, that's the one. Would you?" I start then stop. I think my heart is going to fly out of my chest. "Would you ever want to go there with me sometime?"

Her eyes widen in surprise. "Yeah, I'm guessing that sounded wrong. Sorry, I didn't mean to make this awkward," I say.

"I might meet you there sometime," she says. "But I can see the owner looking at me, so I better get back to work. Leave me your number and I'll text you." Then she's off to a trio of sunburned tourists. "Leave me your number and I'll text you." Sometimes fate steps in to steal things from you and sometimes it sweeps in to take you places you only dreamed of going. I write down my number. Will she really text me? I have the feeling this is just what she says when guys hit on her and she wants to say no.

>> Chapter 44.

Andy.

I awake with a jolt to the sound of banging on my front door. With bleary eyes, I glance at my watch. 7:12 a.m. Probably not FedEx or the mail carrier at this hour. Whoever it is bangs again, more insistent this time. My stomach lurches. My first thought is that it's Dne. He's Reynolds107 and has tracked me here to Ventura to confront me about why I'm on social media searching for him. I look around my room for anything to defend myself. Nothing. I don't even have a baseball bat, even though we riders always make sure our protagonists have one handy when they hear suspicious noises. I throw on some jeans and tell myself I'm overreacting. It could be the neighbor who's always losing her cat.

The banging continues. I muster the courage to peer through the curtains on the front window, not sure what to expect. And I'm surprised to see a dark-haired woman with an athletic build. I hope she's not one of my new fans on social media. "Andy Shapiro," she shouts, pounding on the door again. She has the voice of someone who's used to getting what she wants. "Open up!"

I fling open the door. "Can I help you?" I say gruffly.

She peers at me. "Are you Andy?"

I nod. "You don't look like your author photo," she says, holding up a hardcover of "He's Gone." She points to the photo on the back cover. "It was taken 5 years ago when my hairline was a little lower. You realize what time it is? I just met with the sheriff last night. You're going to want to let me in."

My heart rate soars. The sheriff? What for? She moves toward me. "Let me inside and I'll explain." I've read about scams where people let a seemingly helpless woman into their homes only to be robbed by her sturdy companions in hiding. I step onto the porch and close the door behind me. "Anything you have to say, you can say out here."

"I want to talk to you about 'He's Gone.'" I stare at the book and then back at her. "I appreciate your enthusiasm for my work, but I prefer discussing it in a public event. Sign up for my newsletter, and I'm not one of your fans."

"You wrote some things in the book that have both the sheriff and me very interested." My heart is hammering as I struggle to figure out what she wants, how the sheriff is involved, or if he's involved, why I haven't heard from him. I point to a table in the apartment complex courtyard. "Let me get my shoes. I'll meet you there." I race inside and close the door behind me, locking it. I text Jonathan and ask him to come over as backup in case something goes wrong. Thankfully, he agrees. Then I slip on my shoes and step outside, lock the door behind me and lift my shoulders, hoping I look calm and confident even as my heart is pounding. From a distance, she doesn't look all that intimidating. But her rigid posture and firm jaw tell me she's ready for battle.

"Over what, though?" I step over to the cafe table and sit across from her. "What can I help you with?" I say, hoping that by sounding friendly, she'll dial down the glare she's giving me.

She sweeps away the avalanche of purple flowers that have fallen on the table from the towering jacaranda tree above. "Three years ago, the body of an unidentified man washed up at Ventura pier," she says. "Matter of fact, yes, I know that's what the novel is about. Advanced decomposition along with no identification meant the coroner couldn't identify him. Meanwhile, no missing person report was ever filed that matched the identity of the anonymous man. The coroner returned an open verdict and classified him as an unidentified person."

"Right," I say. "I assume you read this in the author notes at the back of the book."

She ignores me. "The Sister Servants of Mary and Oxnard arranged for the body to be buried at Cemetery Memorial Park, which is about a mile from here. The unidentified man's headstone reads, 'The Man at the Pier, Found 25th October, 2025. Name Not Known. Rest in Peace.'"

My head begins to spin. Is this woman a true crime fanatic who wants to talk about the story behind my book? I've met a few like her at book signings, overly enthusiastic, as we authors diplomatically put it. The kind who might even reach out to the sheriff. She looks at notes on her phone. "California State Police entered his information into a database called NamUs, the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System, hoping that someone was looking for him. But no one was. That's why you wrote your story, wasn't it? To explain who this man was."

I sigh with relief. "Yes, I imagine the detective investigates the dead body and figures out who he was and how he was murdered. Except in the case of the real man at the pier, because of the nature of the gunshot wound to the neck, the coroner couldn't conclude whether it was a self-inflicted wound, an accident, or a homicide."

"Isn't that right?"

"That's my understanding. Yes. But I write fiction."

"And yes, you write fiction. And you considered all those choices, an accident, suicide, a murder, and chose to make it a homicide."

"Murders do make compelling mysteries," I say glibly. "Still, no one else knew his identity, but you did."

Heat rushes to my face. "I made it up. That's what authors do."

"And yet you're on social media looking for Dne Reynolds, pretending you don't know that he's dead or that he's the man at the pier."

Shock slams through my body, stealing my breath. "Dne Reynolds is not the man at the pier, is he?" If it's true, how could this person possibly know that? The courtyard begins to spin and I grip the table, trembling inside.

"Dne Reynolds is my brother," she says. "After you and I chatted on social media, I took your advice and read 'He's Gone.' I stare at her in disbelief. 'You're Reynolds107?'"

She nods. "Karen Fagan. My last name was Reynolds before I got married. A friend shared your post with me. She's one of your fans, I guess. After we texted, I read every word of 'He's Gone.' Even highlighted some passages. And you know what? I kept wondering if the real man at the pier might be my brother." She pushes her phone across the table and shows me a photo. "This is him."

My heart stutters in my chest. "It's Dne. This is him." She bites her lower lip. "So, I contacted your county sheriff, Eric Ingram, and shared photos of my brother. My photos of him matched the coroner's photos of the man at the pier."

I shake my head. "That's impossible. The body they found was bloated and completely unrecognizable."

"Except my brother and the man at the pier both had an identical scar down their left leg from a bike accident when he was a kid." She swipes right and shows me a photo of an uneven scar that starts below the knee of a man's leg and winds its way to the ankle.

Panic jolts my system. I'd interviewed the coroner about the body, heard about the scar, and made up an entirely different backstory. I'd imagined the man was wealthy and had injured his leg in a skiing accident in the Dolomites in Italy.

"This photo of Dne's leg matched the photos the coroner took," she says, bringing me back to the moment. "It was enough evidence for the sheriff to agree to exhume the body."

The air closes in around me. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. Every detail of the crime scene report had been seared into my mind. The massive swelling, the awful discoloration, the way every feature of the man had been distorted beyond recognition. That the body was Dne Reynolds seems impossible.

"They'll compare the DNA to get a final confirmation. And I don't doubt, and neither does the sheriff, that they'll confirm it's my brother."

"So, you're getting the answers you need," I say, sounding calm even as my pulse is racing. "I'm glad my book was able to help in some small way."

She narrows her eyes. "Don't pretend, Andy."

I meet her gaze. "I'm not pretending. You expect me to believe that you wrote this novel about the unidentified man at the pier, and 3 years later, you just happened to be on social media looking for a man named Dne Reynolds? You must have known who the dead body was when you wrote your novel."

I stare at her and think about telling her the truth about her brother, that he was in Ventura to track down Kate. I consider telling her every lurid detail I know of what he did to Kate, the threats he made. But something is holding me back. A single irrational thought that if I reveal too much, I'll regret it later. My face reddens. "I didn't know."

"I'm betting you even know how he died. Suicide, accident, homicide, you know that, too." My heart is pounding. One question is nagging at me, begging to be answered, even as this woman sits before me with questions of her own. Did Kate kill Dne? If she did, she couldn't have shot him on the crowded pier where his body was later discovered. Too many people would have seen it happen, and his body would have surfaced days later, not weeks. No, Dne's bloated body had to be in the ocean for weeks before its discovery at the pier. In the haze of my confusion, there's only one possibility that makes sense. Kate made it to Sam's boat. She reached Anakapa Island.

"Look," I managed to say, "it's all a strange coincidence. Kind of crazy, you know, but I don't know anything about what happened to your brother. And until now, I had no idea that he might be the man at the pier."

She looks at me like she doesn't believe me. Inside, my stomach roils because the sheriff might also not believe my story and want to investigate whether I had something to do with Dne's death.

"Kate did it," Karen lowers her voice. "I know my brother wasn't, you know, a good guy. I've heard scary things about him over the years. We'd lost touch, which sometimes happens when parents die. And when I'd tried to reconnect with him, I never could find him. Maybe that's why I never put out a missing person report, thinking maybe he was in hiding for whatever things he'd done." She leans forward on her elbows, her eyes searching mine. "Tell me the truth. When he was out here in Ventura, you knew him, didn't you?"

I don't answer. I can't. I'm imagining what must have happened. Dne must have followed Kate to Anakapa Island when she arrived there. Maybe she waited for Dne, gun loaded. Or had he managed to hurt her once more in the quiet of that desolate island, and she'd fought back, this time armed and ready?

"I never knew Dne," I say forcefully.

"Then maybe he was out here because of someone you do know." I shake my head in a lie. "No." I close my eyes for a split second and imagine Kate pulling the trigger, the recoil slamming against her shoulder.

"I don't think it was suicide," Karen says, snapping me back to the moment. "Or an accident. I think someone killed him."

I don't answer. I can't form any words. My mind racing to fill in the blanks. After Kate shot him, what did she do? The most plausible answer is that she escaped on Sam's boat, not knowing if he was dead or alive. She had no idea that the ocean would claim him, that nature would take its course.

She rubs her forehead, closing her eyes. "You expect me to believe that you wrote 'He's Gone' about the unidentified man at the pier not knowing who he was and then 3 years later you're on social media looking for a man named Dne Reynolds who just so happens to be the man at the pier."

I struggle to focus on her question. Her words become a distant echo as my heart pounds with a singular, overpowering thought. Kate could still be alive.

>> Chapter 45.

Brooke.

I'm the same person who walked into Aon Expeditions a week ago. I have the same body, the same memories, but I feel different as I leave Celestine. On my way home from the restaurant tonight, I pass the entrance to the PCH. And as always since the accident, my heart races. But this time I wonder how much longer will I let what happened on this highway haunt me. I grip the wheel tightly, pull a U-turn, merge onto the highway, then immediately regret it. The rush of the cars zooming by fills me with panic. This is a mistake. Then a strange sense of calm takes hold. I manage a mile on the highway, then a second mile. My nerves on edge, I drive along the curved stretch of road where the accident occurred, expecting to see the vague but imaginary figures that have always haunted me on deserted roads since the accident. When none appear, my breathing gradually slows. I finally pull into my own driveway. A sigh of relief as I step out of the car. The scent of cut grass hangs heavy in the air. It smells like home.

I head into the house and call out, "James, Olivia." Instead of the usual sounds of home, James talking on the phone, Olivia playing with her friends, silence greets me. The kitchen is still, the dining table untouched. Did they even eat dinner? I'd left them a meal in the freezer and it's still there uncooked. I head to Olivia's room. Her desk scattered with her drawings stands deserted. Am I now so invisible in this family that they make plans to go out without telling me?

Then I hear laughter. Olivia's high-pitched giggle. But from where? I follow the sound, then rush outdoors. It's coming from the garage. My steps quicken as I approach the door. Slightly ajar. Bathed in the soft glow of a single bulb hanging from the rafters, James kneels beside Olivia, who's deeply engrossed in painting a wooden box resting on a drop cloth on the floor. Dust particles dance lazily in the faint beams of light. It's an ordinary scene, one I would have once taken for granted. James and Olivia surrounded by a clutter of forgotten cardboard boxes, old bicycles, and the pungent smell of paint.

James looks up. "You're home," he says brightly. I step inside. "What are you two up to?"

"This is for a social studies project," Olivia says. "We're collecting things that are part of our family history. Photos, artifacts, maps, treasures."

"I doubt we have any treasures to put in," I say, "I was hoping you'd make some of my favorite cookies. That could be the treasure." My eyes meet James's, and I tremble on the edge of tears. This moment is filled with possibility. I will look back upon it as a memory someday, I'm sure, and regret what I didn't say and what I didn't do. Or I'll relive it again and again for all the ways I used it to change my life and theirs. I pause, gathering my courage. Why is it so hard to tell them what's in my heart? I'm afraid that if I say the truth aloud, they'll no longer see me for who I always wanted to be. The wife and mother who did it right, who didn't make big mistakes. I'd defined myself by what happened that one night in August, reliving it in every thought and action since then. I may think I'm a good person, but when it comes down to it, maybe I can let that go.

"There's something I want to say to you," I say, my voice wavering. "From here, I can say anything. I can regale them with every detail of the jump. I can share with them what it was like to relive our happy days together. I can remain as I have been, fixated on a past that I cannot undo. But this moment, like every moment, is too precious to waste on yesterday's." I think about walking them through my discovery thanks to the other memory collectors, of what really happened that night. I could explain that I'd been jolted by two people running across the dark highway and gently swerved to miss them only to hit two others in the bike lane. I could make the case that the mistake wasn't entirely my fault. It was an accident. All of that is true, but something inside me is changing. A new version of me is emerging from the past and from the dinner with the memory collectors, one that's stronger and wiser. I'm moving to a place of forgiving myself.

I sit on the floor with them, crossing my legs. I look at them, my eyes glistening with unshed tears, and I force myself to do what my heart already knows. I can change what happens next. The moment hangs in the air. A musty garage is hardly a place to hope for redemption. But if I do this right, it could become one.

"I'm sorry," I say, my voice spilling out, "for not being truthful with myself or with you. I'm sorry for all of it. Can you ever forgive me, Brooke?" James says, his voice breaking. Olivia puts down her paintbrush. "All this time I've been pretending I'm okay while inside I've been a mess," I continue. "I'm wrecked by what I did. I promise you both that I'm going to do better. I'm going to rebuild trust between us."

The next moment, James takes my hand in his and Olivia wraps her arms around my waist. The moment is so surreal. It feels like I'm not in the present at all, but somehow still in the past. As I sit with them and share the story of the past, I sense a shift in them and in me. I brought darkness into their lives, but they're standing on the doorstep of forgiveness. They're finding a way back to me.

>> Chapter 46.

Andy.

"I think Kate is still alive," I say, my voice trembling. The four of us memory collectors sit huddled around a table at Celestine. The dim lighting casts long shadows over the untouched plates, making the rock fish, branzino, and shrimp laid out before us seem strangely out of place, like a feast at the wrong time. Brooke had put so much care into the spread, but now it just sits there as everyone focuses on the reasons I asked them to meet me here.

"I think she escaped from Dne," I add. I can see in their eyes that they want to believe me, to hope that Kate is alive, but after everything they saw that night, they're all skeptical.

Brooke speaks first, her fingers tracing the edge of her plate as if she's searching for something to anchor her. "Why do you think that, Andy?"

"The body that washed up a few months after Kate disappeared, the man at the pier. They've identified him. It's her ex, Dne Reynolds."

"What?" Brooke says, stunned. "It's him."

I nod. "The sheriff is confirming it now. May be a while before they announce it officially. But his sister identified the body as his. If you remember, the man died of a gunshot wound to his neck. I think this is proof that Kate made it to Anakapa Island, shot him, and escaped."

"Or..." Elizabeth hesitates, her gaze drifting to her half-empty wine glass. "It could simply mean that someone shot him, not necessarily her. And even if she did, there's a good chance she still didn't make it."

"Why do you say that?" Logan says, finishing her thought.

Logan's expression hardens, muscles straining in his neck. "I saw firsthand just how dangerous Dne is." His words hang in the air, the clink of silverware from nearby tables emphasizing our silence. Brooke's initial disbelief softens into something more thoughtful. "If she shot him and escaped, and just for the moment, let's say that's true. Where is she? Why haven't you heard from her?"

"She might be in hiding," I say. "She doesn't know he's gone."

Brooke's voice tightens. "I think Logan's right. It's most likely she didn't make it. You probably don't want to hear this, but knowing that the man at the pier is Dne Reynolds doesn't prove that Kate's alive, right?"

"We can't assume she escaped," Logan says, his voice low. "Sam and I were no match for him. She probably wasn't either."

Outside, the distant sound of the ocean crashing against the shore filters through the restaurant's open windows. A reminder that the world keeps moving, indifferent to all our questions.

"And if she's in hiding," Logan continues, "how would we even find her after all this time? Everything's gone cold. There's no trail left."

"I suppose you could file a new missing person report for Kate and see if the police can find her," Elizabeth offers. "3 years later."

"It won't get far," Logan counters.

I cross my arms on my chest. "I'll have to figure out how to bring her out of hiding."

"How though?" Logan asks.

Brooke leans in. "Andy, the AON press conference. I know we all said no, but maybe you do it and ask the reporters for help finding Kate."

Just thinking about the journalists hounding me about Kate makes my breath catch. What if they connect her to Dne's death? The sheriff would have no choice but to investigate. Kate would become a murder suspect.

"People pay attention to press conferences," Brooke continues, "especially if you're the only memory collector to do one."

Logan shakes his head. "I don't know. You get out there and talk about Kate and the press is going to do some digging. I can already hear the headline. 'Memory Collector Jumps to the Past to Find the Lost Love Who Got Away and Discovers She's a Murderer.'"

"Not a murderer," Elizabeth interjects. "This could easily be considered self-defense."

"The self-defense claim is so much harder than you think," Brooke counters. "She'd have to prove she was in real danger beyond any doubt. They could argue she overreacted or that she could have gotten away if she tried. If they decide she used too much force, it could ruin her case. Then they'd dig into her past, looking for anything that suggests she's capable of losing control. They'd question why she didn't go to the police when he first arrived in Ventura. It could take years to clear her name. And even then, she might still face a civil suit from Dne's family."

I struggle to process everything they're saying. And then a thought crystallizes. "The only way anyone could connect her to Dne is if they knew he was her ex," I say. "And so far, the only ones who know that for sure are the people around this table."

Elizabeth's expression shifts. Realization dawning. "If we all make a pact never to tell anyone what we saw the night of August 25th."

Brooke exhales sharply. "Are you suggesting we lie?"

"This isn't just a little lie," Logan says, turning pale. "It's breaking the law. I mean, we'd..."

be accomplices to murder. That kind of stuff lands you in jail. All of us.

We all lost something that night, Elizabeth says softly. If there's any way we can make things right for Kate, I say we do it.

One by one, they each give a single slow nod. Elizabeth first, her fingers drumming against the table. Brooke takes longer, her eyes darting between Logan and Elizabeth, then her chin dips in agreement. Logan is last, his crossed arms gradually loosening as he studies each face around the table.

Yeah. Okay, we won't say anything to the police. Brooke says, "We didn't see what happened. We don't know anything about Kate or Dane. We'll keep your secret, Andy." Her words create an unspoken instant agreement between the four of us.

Maybe it's a response to years of violence against women. Or maybe our decision is because we're all still reeling from the pain and loss of August 25th. But there's no doubt we're desperate to do something, anything to change the outcome of that night.

"Do the press conference, Andy," Brooke whispers. "Find Kate. I'll be right here if you need me."

Jamie, the head of PR for AON Expedition, says to me as I stand outside a conference room at the Crown Plaza Ventura Beach Hotel. "11:00 sharp." Media scrutiny of AON's safety procedures has reached a fever pitch with headlines blaring: "Is AON Expedition Safe?" "AON Under Scrutiny." "Safety in Question." "Experts Question Safety of Time Travel Technology." AON is grateful for my participation in the press conference, and Jaime has coached me on how to shift the narrative, aiming to reassure the public and restore faith in the technology. But I have my own agenda, one that diverges sharply from hers.

Her assistant hands me a bottle of Fiji water. Then Jaime swings open the door to the ballroom, and the quiet of the hallway is swallowed by the bustling energy of a room filled with at least a hundred reporters. Their cameras already whirring. I wasn't expecting so many. The bright overhead lights flood the space, and I squint for a moment, hoping my eyes will adjust. It's so bright that aside from the front row of reporters, I can't make out the faces of anyone else in the room.

As we make our way over to the podium, I can feel their stares scrutinizing my every move. A few of them peer at me as though I'm a strange creature. Do I look healthy? Do I appear traumatized? A young reporter nervously fiddles with his collar, surprising me. Are they as anxious about this press conference as I am?

The room is tightly packed with reporters squeezed shoulder to shoulder. Some standing on tiptoe, others leaning against the walls. All eyes on me. They're here for answers, but I carry a different message, one they're not prepared for.

As I take my place behind the microphone, the room falls silent. I expect Jaime to introduce me, but instead she steps to the microphone and says, "Thank you for joining us to speak with one of the memory collectors. Pat yourselves on the back for getting into this room because for every one of you here, there are at least a hundred other reporters vying for a spot."

The air buzzes with electric energy, and suddenly the room erupts with a cacophony of voices. Jaime raises her hand. The effect is almost immediate. Silence washes over the crowd. "To make this go smoothly, I've already given each of you a number, and you'll ask your questions in numerical order. And yes, just in case you're not sure, we start with the number one."

Laughter ripples through the audience, and a woman with dark hair cascading in loose waves stands. "Kate Bradley, Channel 11 News. A lot of people think it makes absolutely no sense to relive any time in our past. Whatever happened to us is behind us, done. What is the point of traveling back?"

I lean forward. "Many of us are stumbling through life. The first time around, we don't always know what to do with a moment. We're distracted or we waste it, not seeing its full value, thinking there will be more. The second time around, we've gained perspective. We understand the significance of a moment, a gesture, or a word said. We know what's at stake. What's ahead that we may lose? We notice things we didn't see before."

A thin reporter with a razor-sharp bob and an equally shrill voice chimes in. "Alice Williams, New York Times. What did you take away from your week in the past?"

I freeze. I'd written down what I wanted to say and rehearsed it. But now that the moment is here, I'm not sure I can go through with it. "I went back to find a lost love. I spent a week with her. I realized that the reason I could never get over her wasn't because I was unable to let go of the past or because I'd idealized our relationship. What I discovered was that I haven't been able to forget her because... because she is the one for me. When I'm with her, everything makes sense."

The room is charged with sudden energy. Several reporters start lobbing follow-up questions at me. I see Jaime step to the microphone to restore order, and I push forward. "I'd like to finish my answer if you'll allow me," I say, and the room quiets again. "This next part is crucial."

A few reporters lean forward, their eyes locked on me. My hands are clammy as they grip the table's edge, my heart pounding. "I'm searching for Kate Montano. She also goes by Sarah Canford in the present, with the same determination I had in the past." I say, my voice cracking slightly as I try to hold it steady. "Please help me bring Kate home. I believe she's still out there, maybe even hearing me right now, unaware that I've never forgotten her. I want her to know that I am still in love with her and always will be. And I need her to know that it's safe for her to come out."

Cameras flash, and a blonde reporter in a turquoise dress shouts, "Safe? What do you mean by safe?"

"Kate, if you're hearing me," I continue, my voice raw with emotion. "He's gone."

***

Chapter 47.

Elizabeth.

"Did you see me?" This is the question everyone asks me. "Did you see me in the past? What was I like? Have I changed?" They're fascinated with what secrets the past holds, what memories they're holding on to that might shift in the light of reliving them again. They're curious if what they remember about themselves is really how it was.

Mark is no exception. He may have created this technology and labored over it for years on the granular level, but his wonder about my experience in the past seems endless. "Did you see me?"

"Yes," I tell him. "We're on the deck facing the ocean in the same chairs we sat in when we were married. Perhaps it's muscle memory, but he's sitting on the right and I'm on the left like we always did."

"And you told me every detail of our first date." He smiles. "What?"

"I sound like a hopeless romantic."

"What else did I say?"

"You asked me to choose us in the future."

His jaw slackens. "I was a smart guy. I still want that, Elizabeth."

"With all the problems surrounding the extraction, what truly wrecked me was that I could lose you," he says softly. "It forced me to wake up to what's always been the most important. And that's you."

Tears well up in my eyes. "How did I mess this up?"

He glances out at the waves, his hair lifting in the breeze, revealing a face lined with worry. "I always believed that my life would get better and better. For a long time, it did. I met you. We got married. We had Sam. I had the beginnings of a groundbreaking invention. Then everything came crashing down around us. I was dead inside when Sam died. I was no longer Sam's dad. I didn't know who I was. Honestly, I was lost. Everything felt meaningless. I hid in my work, untethered from everything else. I was terrified to be here with you in this empty, quiet house with all its reminders of our life with Sam. I became obsessed with finishing this invention that would help us find our way back to him. And in the process, I did all the wrong things."

As the waves beat a steady rhythm in the distance, I feel the weight of his grief, as if his pain is becoming part of my own story.

"I wasn't here for Sam either," he continues. "I was gone all the time. It's my fault he was on that deserted highway with a drug dealer. If I'd been around more, maybe I could have..."

"Sam wasn't on that highway to meet Logan. They didn't even know each other. Logan had left his drug-dealing days behind and was focused on staying clean."

"Then why was Sam there?"

"He had a reason. A good one," I say hoarsely. "He was protecting his friend Kate, who was in danger from her ex-boyfriend. That night, by the highway, her ex came after her. Sam charged in, giving Kate the chance to break free and run across the highway. Her ex sprinted after her, and Sam chased him down, trying to stop him. But we both know what happened after that."

He blinks back tears. "All this time, all those nights we worried about him, not knowing who he was with, I'd always feared the worst, believing that the accident was proof that we'd failed him. We were wrong about Sam. We should have trusted what we already knew and loved about him. He was kind and brave and a true friend. He was so much more than we ever realized."

In the silence, we both grapple with two truths. Grief for the son we'd lost, but pride for the man he'd become. "Remember the night we lectured him? Frustrated that he was always going places, doing things, and not telling us anything. We thought we were steering him back on the right path. Sam already knew the way."

He turns away from the ocean and looks at me. "I was a terrible husband when Sam died," he says, his voice catching. "I didn't say or do any of the right things. I saw how wrecked you were when he died. And I... I wasn't there for you. I see it all clearly now. My trip to the past didn't change anything. Sam is still gone. But the jump has opened a portal of sorts, a gateway to understanding Mark."

"You are launching Aon. Don't go easy on me. I want to be better than I was."

My heart is filled with painful tenderness. It's as if the uncrossable barrier that separated us in the 3 years since Sam died is lifting. And I'm seeing Mark for the first time. The brilliant, type-A genius I fell in love with. Now layered with a heartache I hadn't grasped before.

"You used this invention, this thing that broke us apart, to give me more time with Sam. But I lost you in the process." His gaze holds mine. "And now I want to get you back. Get me back."

I feel a breath of magic from another place and time. The past, perhaps? Or is it a glimpse of a future that had once seemed out of reach? I glance away, grappling with the implications of what he just said. Memories flash through my mind: laughter shared over coffee, late-night conversations, and the quiet moments together where everything felt right. But I also see the cracks, the misunderstandings, and the hurt that led us to this point.

"This might be too much to ask." His gaze holds steady, a flicker of fear just beneath the surface. "But would you ever take a chance on us again?"

The question is simple. Yet, I'm overwhelmed by how we do that. How do we navigate the fragile landscape of our past while trying to build something new? There are feelings to sort out: grief, love, anger, and lingering resentment. What if we slip back into old patterns, the same misunderstandings and distance that drove us apart? I can envision the steps, the tentative conversations, the slow rebuilding of trust. Every twist and turn holds the potential for both joy and heartache. Yet within that uncertainty, I feel a flicker of hope. And beneath the fear lies a whisper of excitement at what could be.

"Maybe," I say. "Maybe I would."

"Maybe is good," he says as he takes my hand in his. "Everything good begins with a maybe." I'll be forever broken by Sam's death, but for the first time, I realize I might still be capable of hope and wonder.

***

Chapter 48.

Andy.

In the days after the press conference, my phone dings all day, every day. Messages, tags, and comments stream in like a relentless tide. My story is splashed across news feeds and headlines. The details of my lost love laid bare for all to dissect. Most were positive. Nina Jarrett posted on X: "BRB melting into a puddle of emotions over here. Andy Shapiro's longing for Kate Montano/Sarah Canford is everything. #HopelessRomantic."

Of course, there are lots of cynics, too, including Colin Beex complaining to his 23,000 followers: "@AndyShapiro Maybe instead of making your heartbreak a public spectacle, try dealing with it privately. Your declaration is giving me red flags vibes, dude. She might have moved on for a reason." He might be right.

I keep replaying the press conference in my mind. Every word, every glance into the camera. I remind myself this was it. My one chance to speak in front of countless news outlets, knowing Kate might hear me. And now I'm just waiting, scrolling through my phone, checking for anything that might be from her. The hours drag. I check every platform she might use: emails, messages, texts, social media, even some accounts I haven't opened in years. I scour through every notification. And when I finally tear myself away from the screen, I barely make it out of my bedroom before turning back, convinced I might have missed something.

Every time I get a notification, my pulse spikes. It's ridiculous how much weight I've placed on every buzz, every vibration. I go through the same cycle every day, scanning social feeds, obsessing over any mention that might somehow be her. But every lead I chase turns into a mirage. A guy on TikTok swears he met someone named Kate Montano last month at a beach town up north, but the picture is grainy, and the more I stare at it, the more I realize it's not her. Another woman on Instagram claims she met Sarah Canford at a bookstore in Ventura and swears she was buying one of my books, but it's all wrong.

Dozens of reporters try to track me down, too, leaving questions in private messages on social media. A few have figured out my private email address. One journalist from an online paper found the second cousin I met once at a family reunion and asked her to put us in touch. I get a message from her: "Hey, this guy reached out. Thought you might want to talk to him." Another reporter who'd been at the press conference, Kate Bradley, even went so far as to slip a note under my door.

"What did you mean by 'it's safe'? 'He's gone'?" is the one question they all ask. They also want to know why Kate has two names. Did she change her identity? Was I part of some cover-up?

I try to stay hopeful, telling myself each new lead might be the one. Brooke even texts me every few days, "Don't give up. She's out there," or something similar. But her optimism fades as the weeks fly by with no response. I try to get out of my own head, to write, to pour this mess into words, but every sentence is riddled with clichés and tired tropes. I try different approaches, but nothing works. It's all just hollow.

Some reader sends me a clip from the press conference, and I replay it on my laptop, thinking maybe I missed something. I listen to my words and cringe. That man was clinging to hope. Stupidly naive. It wears on me, the constant strain of looking and hoping.

As the days pass and there's no word from her, I start to believe maybe she knows I'm looking for her and has decided not to respond. That thought eats away at me. Maybe she heard everything I said and feels nothing. Or maybe she doesn't want to be found by me anyway. And the thought that's been circling in the back of my mind, the one I've been pushing away, comes back stronger than ever. What if Logan is right? What if she's gone? The longer I go without a response, the more her silence feels like an answer itself.

One afternoon, my phone buzzes with a FaceTime from Jonathan. I almost let it go to voicemail, but then swipe to answer. He sees the piles of papers, coffee mugs left cold and untouched, clothing strewn about. "Have you left your apartment even once this week?" he asks. I look away, shifting the phone so he can't see the worst of it, and he sighs. "I'm serious, man. You need to get out of there. Just breathe some fresh air."

"I will," I say, but it's a lie.

"Don't make me call you again in another week just to see your place looking like something out of a crime documentary."

I let out a weak laugh. "Okay."

Later that day, I finally get the energy to head out the door. The cool ocean breeze hits me like a reset button, clearing some of the cobwebs from my head. I walk aimlessly, passing people chatting outside cafes, couples laughing on the beach. Everyone has someone.

The next thing I know, I'm on the beach in the same place where I once told Kate I was falling for her. Mistake. I notice the surfers out in the water, bobbing up and down on their boards as they catch the last waves of the day. Their graceful arcs in the water feel like poetry in motion. It shifts my focus from my own worries, even if just for a moment. The waves roll in the water a deep blue flecked with white foam, bringing with them a collection of shells and stones scattered along the shoreline. I stoop to pick up a smooth, flat rock, feel the coolness of it against my fingertips, and skip the rock across the water, watching as it bounces before sinking beneath the waves.

When I look up, I see someone standing a few yards away. Kate.

Shock slams through my body, stealing my breath. She stands before me, a vision in a blue sundress that dances around her legs in the ocean breeze. Her hair is darker, but there's no mistaking the almond-shaped eyes, the gentle curve of her chin. I try to call out her name, but my voice is locked in my throat. This is a dream. It has to be. How else to explain why it feels like I'm falling and flying all at the same time? My trembling knees threaten to topple me into the sand.

She drifts toward me as if she thinks she's dreaming, too. I have so many questions, so many things I want to ask. Where to begin?

"I've looked everywhere for you," I say. And then my voice collapses. I hear how desperate I sound. I'm doing this all wrong.

She draws a breath and straightens her shoulders. With her sun-kissed skin, she's spellbinding. Her face is fuller. Her hair is loose and carefree. And something else. There's a self-assurance about her that's been brought out by the passage of time.

"I heard what you said about me on the news," she says quietly. "For weeks, I've thought about reaching out to you, but I can't risk going on social media. I can't have a digital footprint. I came to Ventura and walked down the street in front of your apartment building a couple of times, but there were always too many people around. With all the media attention, I thought I'd be far too easy to spot. Then I had an idea to come to the beach, the place where I saw you last. And here you are."

A tight ache builds in my chest. After all the years I've spent searching for her, she's the one who found me. I've dreamed of this moment. Played it over and over in my mind. But now that it's here, words fail me.

"I didn't know you still felt this way about me," she says softly. I hear the delicate rawness of her voice, and it seems impossible that I'm here with her.

"I can't imagine life without you in it," I say, then immediately regret it. I'll scare her off. It doesn't seem to phase her. "Everywhere I turned, the news media was buzzing about 'he's gone,' trying to figure out who you meant. I wondered if you were talking about Dane, but how could you when I never told you about him? I watched the clip a hundred times, and all I could figure is that you learned about Dane when you jumped to the past. Did you?"

I nod. "When I saw you last, you were trying to get to Sam's boat to escape to Anakappa Island."

"So then you know," she says softly. Her gaze meets mine. "But how can you be sure it's safe for me to come out of hiding now?"

"They found Dane's body." I watch her eyes widen in surprise. "He's the unidentified body they found at the pier 3 years ago." I continue. "His sister says it's definitely him."

She tilts her head. "I haven't seen anything about that in the news."

"It will be soon. The coroner is confirming it, but it's Dane. I'm sure of it."

She walks to the water's edge, silent. As the tide rolls in, the waves are gaining strength, large and powerful, churning and frothing around her feet. I follow her deep into the surf, feeling the raw power of the ocean and all its unpredictability.

"I've been hiding from him for so long," she says, her voice barely above the roar of the waves. "Living far away from here, every day on high alert. Every moment feeling like I'm in danger."

"You can let go of that now. He's gone."

"I don't know how to live in a world where I don't have to worry that he's going to come after me again. How can I be sure he's really gone?"

"He died of a gunshot wound to the neck. He's not coming back."

She turns to me, fear in her eyes. "Then you'll need to turn me into the police."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, I was headed to Anakapa Island, but what you don't know is that I made it. As I was setting up my tent that night, I heard slow, quiet footsteps coming up the gravel road to the campground. They stopped and started again like someone was searching. I just knew it was Dane. I turned off my lantern, grabbed the gun, and hid behind some tall rocks nearby, waiting. After a long time with nothing, I thought I'd imagined it all. But when I headed back to the tent, he charged at me. Somehow, I shot at him. My hands were shaking so hard I was sure I'd missed. I ran faster than I've ever run back to the boat." She hesitates, her lips trembling. "But if the dead body is his, I killed him, Andy."

She watches me, her eyes searching for shock or disgust.

"I won't turn you in."

"How can you say that?"

"If anyone finds out that you know that I killed him, you'd be..."

"I know. You'd be an accomplice to murder," she finishes, her voice dropping to a whisper.

I consider telling her that the violent merry-go-round of images from the encounter with Dane will be forever burned in my memory; that I don't need a time machine to remember Dane's shadowed figure on the beach. His hand covering her mouth, her eyes wide and filled with terror. When she finally broke free, I remember the split-second glance she threw over her shoulder, like she was making sure I was still there before she ran. I still remember every minute of that night on the beach as if it happened seconds ago.

"I saw what he did, and I know what terrible things he was capable of," I tell her.

"You'd be risking everything," she insists. "Why would you do that for someone you knew for what, 5 days?"

I step closer. "The first time we met at Jonathan's birthday, it felt as if fate had arranged our meeting." I look away, the crash of waves helping me steady my voice. "Before you, I thought love was just another product marketed to us like any other commodity. Yet within days, I found myself falling for you. I wondered if it was like lightning in a bottle. If we didn't meet exactly that way, maybe we'd never have fallen for each other. But then I took the AON trip. This time I met you a few days before Jonathan's birthday party. Even under entirely different circumstances, we fell for each other. I know now that what we have is rare, and I felt the pain of losing you twice."

The ocean's roar fills the silence. "So, yes, I'll keep your secret." She blinks back tears.

We watch the setting sun paint the sky a riot of colors: orange, pink, and purple. Waves crash against the shore, sending up a misty spray. And I see her shoulders relax. I stand beside her in the swirling waters, and I feel the powerful energy of the waves washing us clean of the past. The sun sinks lower in the sky, and the waves are brushed by gold as the final rays disappear over the horizon.

"The effect doesn't last long. Everything out here on the ocean moves and changes from moment to moment."

"Look, a lot of time has passed since we..." I say, then trail off, and I imagine you're in a relationship and maybe even have a couple of kids by now."

She laughs and shakes her head. "None of that, but I often think about the last time we were together," she says softly. "And I envy that you got to experience it all again. I really liked you, but my life then... it was never my own. I was always afraid until I met you. But that was so long ago, Andy."

I nod, keeping my voice steady, though I'm not sure how long I can keep that up. "I don't want to go back to what we had. I already did that. I want to move forward."

She's silent for a moment, her eyes drifting past me toward the water, like she's looking for answers in the waves. "I'm not the person I was back then," she says quietly, as if she's warning me. "I lied to you, kept secrets. I'm not proud of that." She looks away again, and I think she might be getting ready to say goodbye. But then she looks up. "I wanted so badly for you to like me, not to see me as a broken person, a victim."

"You're strong, Kate. You didn't just stand there when Dane had you. You fought. I saw you take control when most people would have crumbled." My hand reaches for hers. And when our fingers touch, I feel an electric charge, as if someone just jolted me alive again. Everything I want and everything I experienced in the past comes down to this moment. Things can stay exactly as they've been. Or I can make them change.

"What if we do something simple now? Maybe dinner."

She isn't sure. I can see it in her eyes. She doesn't know if she can trust me with her secret.

"Then I'm starving, actually."

"Okay, then. I will also order a bottle of Dom Perignon."

She steps back. A playful smile tugs at her lips. "Wait, why are you suggesting Dom Perignon?"

"From Sleepless in Seattle, of course. Only Bill Pullman calls it Dom Deloise."

Her smile morphs into astonishment. "Are you saying that years ago when we first met and we watched Sleepless in Seattle in my apartment and I said I really wanted to try Dom Perignon someday. You still remember that?"

I glance down at our hands still touching. "I remember watching the movie with her that first time and how incredible it felt all over again the second time. I remember everything about you, Kate."

She looks at me in surprise. "Seriously? Were you really paying attention to a minor detail like that?"

I glance up. In the hushed colors that stretch across the horizon, I see it all. Our past together, our present, our future. "I want all of it," I whisper, "to you, always."

***

Chapter 49.

Logan.

It takes Haley over a week to text me. Eight agonizing days while I ruminated about popping back into Celesteine to remind her who I was. Eight grueling days while I checked my phone every 15 minutes in case a text had slipped through and I'd somehow missed the sound of its high-pitched chime. When the notification finally swoops across my phone, I stare at it as if I'd just been handed a bomb. Whatever words she might say will blow up my heart.

"Hey, Logan, it's Haley." I wait, my heart pounding. The tiny ellipses pulse on the screen, indicating she's typing. Thoughts swirl in my head, bracing myself for the possible blow. She's found someone else. She misspoke when she said she might go for tacos. She's leaving town. The second stretch into eternity. This is the moment everything changes. My hopes dashed. An ending before there was a chance of a beginning.

"I get off at 7. It's not flirty, but it's a beginning. Want to meet at Jose's tonight? 7:15."

Relief floods through me, and I reread her response, making sure I read it right. Still, I don't want to seem too weak, so I wait 5 minutes to answer. Then, "You bet. See you there." Before I press send, I erase the exclamation marks. But then it looks too laid-back, too cool. So, I write, "You bet. See you there." I press send before I can overthink it some more.

Now, I'm wheeling my way there, wearing a blue button-down and brand-new jeans that took me 10 minutes to choose. I'm probably overdressed for tacos, but I want my clothes to tell her that this date, or whatever this is, means something to me.

Jose's food truck is parked a block from the harbor. So, even when guests are eating tacos that cost $4, we can watch the sunset over this million-dollar view of sailboats, old sea ships, and yachts. I glance up and see Haley coming toward me. Her brown hair, released from her work ponytail, now falls to her shoulders, framing her face with soft waves. Her eyes click onto my face, and the breath whooshes out of my body.

"Hey," she says. I've waited so long for this moment, and this is when my brain freezes.

"You made it," I manage.

"I've never done this before," she says. "Go out with a stranger I met at the bar."

"Me neither. No, I know people say that, but I really... Well, I haven't. Maybe I'm not a stranger. Maybe you're right about that. Want to order?" I sound like a nervous teen on his first date.

"Sure. What do you love on the menu?" My heart is pounding, my hands moist. But I know the answer to this. If only I could calm down.

"Chicken tacos. Aqua verde." Aqua verde is a green juice made from spinach and secret other ingredients Jose won't divulge despite everyone's attempts to coax it out of him. It tastes healthy, but I know brown sugar is one of the ingredients, so it probably isn't.

We order a couple of tacos and Aqua Verde, then head to one of the picnic tables in the plaza and wait for our order to get called out.

"What was it like being in the past for almost a week?" she asks.

"What was it like?" How do I answer that without telling her how we met or what we did together? "The story of us. It's crazy. You see everything with fresh eyes. All the small stuff you once took for granted. All those moments, big and small, that shaped who we are. Back then, we were always striving for more of everything. But going back, you realize how much you already had. So, it's more than reliving a memory. Far more. You see your life as it was, and you realize there's so many more possibilities for your future than you ever imagined. Thousands of choices you can make. Like..." I shrug. "For me, I could see that I spent too much time thinking that all I am is what other people see. I'd limited myself to only what's on the surface."

Her eyes searched mine. "Five days in the past is a long time. What did you do with all that time?"

"I tried things I never thought I would and met people I wouldn't otherwise. I had these plans to swim, surf, hike, and bike every moment. But then other things happened, like..."

"What?" Jose calls out our order, and I start to wheel my chair over to the truck. "Race you," I say. And then we both take off. For a girl who loves puzzles, she's fast, but I'm faster. Maybe it's the adrenaline at work, but I feel invincible. Still, I let her win by a foot. Then I catch her smiling at me, and it feels like before, only better, because I'm part of something that's happening right now. My body is broken, but the world tastes of blue skies and hope.

The tacos kickstart our conversation. We have something to look at, to rave about together. We cover a lot of ground. Some stuff I knew from talking to her in the past. Other things are new to me. She tells me she's going back to school to become a licensed vocational nurse. She thinks she can become a travel nurse and see more of the world. She's growing hydroponic tomatoes on her apartment balcony. No soil, just water. But the approach makes them grow faster. So now she has too many tomatoes, and she's teaching herself how to make and can tomato sauce. "I've got an entire cabinet full, chunky and pureed. I guess they'll come in handy if the apocalypse happens." She laughs like she thinks that was funny.

Then she asks me what I do for a living, and I tell her that I quit my job at the Courier Company and started a new gig at the Y coaching swimming for middle school kids.

"That's ambitious," she says. "I came back, you know, with all these questions."

"Questions?"

"What more can I do with my time? What more can I bring out in myself?"

"You found answers yet?"

"Beginning to."

The sun has set over the still harbor waters, and the street lights are flicking on in the plaza. The dinner crowds that had gathered here have begun to thin out. I dig into my backpack and pull out a bag of Belgian chocolate I bought on Amazon. The price was eye-popping, the cost of an entire meal, but it seemed like a cool move at the time. I place the bag on the table.

"You interested in some dessert?"

She picks up the bag and smiles. "Belgian chocolate, milk chocolate to boot. How did you know this is my absolute favorite?" She stops mid-sentence, and her expression shifts. I see the wheels turning.

"Unless..."

"Unless what?" I ask, but I can see she's putting all the puzzle pieces together. She's figured it out. "Unless you spent time with me in the past."

It's come to this. What do I say? A lie feels like the easy choice, but it would destroy any trust she might have in me. Now I've waited too long to answer. A denial is just going to sound like a lie.

"You met me in the past, didn't you?" she asks in a half-whisper.

I nod. "Three years ago."

She has no idea what to do with that. Her eyes dart toward me, questioning. Then she seems overwhelmed, as if it's dawning on her why I sought her out at Celesteine.

"Were we?"

"We were." Her eyes widened in surprise. "I thought I was going back in time to use my body for whatever wild cliffs, fierce waves, or tough rails I could find. But it turns out I came alive in a whole different way. I met you and none of that mattered anymore." There, I said it. I feel like I'm exploding everything that was fun or breezy about the night so far.

"You don't expect," she says.

"I don't expect anything. Did you ask me out because I came to find you? And what happens or doesn't happen? Well, that's okay with me." Except that it isn't true. If she decides that this whole situation is too strange or that I'm not a good match because I'm in a wheelchair or not what she's looking for, or whatever excuse she comes up with, it will feel like a bullet straight to my heart.

"That's not entirely true." My face is hot, flushed. "What I'm trying to say is that the past isn't the future. What happens next is entirely in our hands. Every moment we get to live all the possibilities."

She sits back in her chair. I can't read her smile. Is this the pleasant smile that's going to precede a quick exit? Or does she find me amusing? Maybe a little pathetic. "I'm still stuck on the idea that we had a relationship. What was I like? What were we like? How did we even meet?"

"We hiked Mount Whitney. I shared my chocolate with you and helped you reach the summit. Then we ended up spending nearly every minute together."

"So, you know everything about me then?"

"Not everything. There's so much more I want to know. I know so little about you."

"We can change that," I say quickly, hoping I sound quick-witted, not pushy.

She leans back in her chair. "I'm in a different place in my life than I was 3 years ago." I feel the door closing between us, although it feels like yesterday to me. "A lot has happened to both of us in those 3 years. Maybe what we had was truly lightning in a bottle, crackling bright, but ultimately temporary."

The words fly out of my mouth. "I'd like to see what the future holds for us." I feel like I've taken a giant leap from which there can be no recovery, no soft landing. All she has to say is, "I don't," and there can be nothing ahead for us. We'll become a dusty memory that only I carry with me.

She releases a breath. "Just because we had a relationship in the past doesn't mean we have a future."

"I think you underestimate us."

"Have you always been like this? So sure of everything?"

"Actually, no. The old me would have never had the nerve to even talk to you or ask you out. Then I met you and everything changed. I changed."

She leans in. "If we try this, there have to be rules."

I sort of inhale her words and repeat them in my head. "If we try this, rules, bring them on. I don't know how I can compare to whatever happened between us before. It might be a lot to live up to. Probably impossible. So, no talking about it. Never. You don't want to know what happened between us."

She studies me for a beat. "I want to get to know the person you are today. Same for you getting to know me. Okay." My heart is racing a million beats a minute. "Seriously, you really don't want to know?"

A hint of a smile plays on her lips. "Even if I beg you, never tell me. Promise me that."

"Okay, I'll never say a word until we have to explain to the grandkids how we met."

The end.

***

Acknowledgements.

I'm someone who vividly remembers my dreams. I write them down, reflect on them, and share them with my husband and kids. One night, I had a dream so real that I rushed to write it down the moment I woke up. In this dream, I turned to see my son, Jake, as he was 20 years ago, four years old, with strawberry blonde hair and big brown eyes. His cheeks were flushed from the sun, and I leaned in to kiss his hair, inhaling that familiar little boy scent. In that moment, I was convinced I'd traveled 20 years into the past. The dream lingered with me for days, blurring the lines between reality and imagination, making me wonder, what if we could truly revisit our past? How would we be changed by our experience?

My passion for science, which has led me to produce hundreds of science-focused TV episodes, naturally pushed me to dive into research on time travel. Most theories suggested that traveling to the past would alter the future, creating ripples with unpredictable consequences. Then I discovered the work of renowned physicist Dr. Fabio Costa at the University of Queensland. His research on closed timelike curves, CTC's, proposed that time travel could occur without paradoxes. According to his theory, if someone tried to change the past, the timeline would adjust to prevent any lasting impact on the future. This revelation sparked another question: What if we could spend an hour in our past, fully knowing it couldn't affect the future? I shared the idea on social media, and the overwhelming response convinced me there were countless stories waiting to be told.

It took years to develop this novel. Partly because I was balancing raising kids with producing television series and a feature film, but also because the story itself needed time to fully take shape. I'm deeply grateful to my talented agent Christina Hogre at the Jane Rotesen Agency, who believed in this story from the start. Thanks to Christina, I was fortunate to get The Memory Collectors into the hands of editor Holly Ingram at Alov Press, who's been an incredible partner in bringing this book to readers. A special thanks goes to my friend Kes Trust, whose home in Ventura, California inspired the setting of the story. Its sun-drenched beaches and serene waves contrast beautifully with the winding highways that vanish into pitch-black nights, making it the perfect backdrop for this story.

Most importantly, thank you to my readers who take the time to reach out. I cherish your comments on Facebook, your emails, and your messages. I truly believe I have the most amazing and generous readers in the world.

We hope you've enjoyed this production of The Memory Collectors by Deep Merve, narrated for you by Andrew Iden, Aaron Bennett, Hillary Huber, and Michael Crouch. This audiobook production has been presented by Spotify Audiobooks. Copyright 2025 by Deep Merve. Production copyright 2025 by Spotify AB. All rights reserved. Thank you for listening.