Split Second

the ugliest ring I’d ever seen, and I asked her what it was. She said her own mother had given it to her before she died, and made her swear not to tell anyone about it except her own daughter, and that meant you, in this case— her granddaughter—when her time came to pass the ring along. Helen was crying, choking on her own words. She said the ring was magic. She said she’d always been afraid of it and had kept it hidden, and so Claudine’s death was her fault, since if she’d been wearing it she could have saved Claudine. I thought she was having a breakdown, could no longer bear to be in touch with reality, but then, you see, she showed me what the ring can do.

Your grandmother never really recovered, was never herself again, at least to me, after that night. She kept the ring with her, wouldn’t let it out of her sight, until she seemed obsessed with it, hardly talked to me of anything else. I grew to fear what she might try to do with it, fear who else she might tell and what would happen to her if she did. But I feared most of all for her sanity.

I thought I must get rid of the thing, but then I thought about how different our lives would be if she had managed to save Claudine. I thought of Josh, numb with grief that night, huddled next to you, Lucy. I thought of you, only two years old and destined to grow up without a mother because an idiot drunk had smashed his car into hers and killed her instantly.

And so, my dear Lucy, I waited four more years to decide that I must remove the ring from your grandmother. You are now only five years old, and you have no idea what awaits you in the future. The ring will be yours. It can be used for great good, but it is not my place to tell you how. You see, if you have your grandmother’s gift, you will soon discover that for yourself, and if you do not, you will never believe me in any case. For your own safety, tell no one you would not trust with your very life. If anyone deserves this ring, it is you, my dear Lucy.

I find myself wondering as I write this letter to you how long I knew you before I went to my reward. I also find myself wondering how old you are as you read this. You see, my instructions were for you to be given this letter and ring upon the death of your father. I hope Josh lived a long, satisfying life and you, my dear, are middle-aged, and you have gained wisdom and insight into yourself and your fellow man. Do you yourself have a daughter?

I wish you joy, and love, and fulfillment in your life, Lucy. I will love you always.

Your Grandfather, Milton Xavier Carlyle

Lucy laid the letter on the desk, picked up the ring, and laid it on her palm. She slowly closed her hand around it. To her surprise, she felt warmth from it, and more, the ring felt quite natural in her hand.

Without thinking, she slipped the ring onto her middle finger. Since it was so large, she curled her fingers to keep it on. She turned on the desk lamp and held it close to the light. She saw symbols etched beneath the three carnelians—a half circle, flat side up; a circle with an inverted cross coming out of it, like an incomplete symbol of Venus or woman; and two small isosceles triangles with nothing at all unusual about them. She had to concentrate to make the symbols out clearly, they were so shallow and faded in the gold. What did the symbols mean? Were they pictographs from a long-ago language? She looked on the inside of the ring. There, in letters large enough for her to see clearly, was a single word etched in black letters: SEFYLL.

Was that Welsh? She whispered the word aloud, stumbling over the sound.

She whispered the word again, changing how she said it until the word flowed more smoothly out of her mouth, as if she had the right pronunciation. She said the word aloud, and she would swear there was a gentle rippling in the light from the desk lamp. Strange, but simply a play of the light—nothing, really.

Her cell phone rang, once, twice, three times, but she ignored it, pressed speaker, and let it go to voice mail. She heard Dillon’s deep voice speaking, but she paid no attention.

She stroked the ring with her thumb, then said the word again: “SEFYLL.”

Dillon stopped speaking in mid-sentence. It seemed to Lucy that the very air stopped, but only for a moment, and then her cell blared out the racing trumpet call again, then rang—one ring, two rings, three rings. And there was Dillon’s voice, and he was repeating what he’d said before.

Like a rubber band snapping back. She fell into the big leather wing chair, heart pounding, too confused to be frightened. What had happened? Dillon was speaking the same words he’d been saying before. She blinked when she heard him say, “So, bottom line, it was Kirsten who struck on Wall Street last night, and she had an accomplice. Call me.”

It was the oddest feeling, listening to him, knowing what he would say. Had he been cut off, called her twice, repeated the same message? She grabbed her cell. What had he said? “Dillon? Lucy here. Ah, you said there was an accomplice with Kirsten last night?”

There was a moment of silence, then, “Are you okay, Lucy?”

“What? Oh, yes, sure, I’m okay.”

Another brief pause, then, “I know Dr. Judd contacted you about the findings of the autopsy. I’m sorry.”

So, he’d called Dillon, too. Well, no surprise there. “Thank you, Dillon.”

“Coop asked me to call you, said you weren’t picking up. They’ve been interviewing Thomas Hurley, and they’ve got a police artist making a sketch.”

But Lucy couldn’t stop staring at the huge ring still sitting comfortably on her middle finger.

“Lucy?”

“I’m sorry, Dillon. Would you tell me something? Did you call me twice just now, get cut off maybe, and called again, or did you call only once?”

“Just once, and you called me right back.”

“I must have been mistaken, then. Don’t worry about it. I guess it has been quite a week, Dillon. I’m okay, though.”

Dillon wondered for an instant if Lucy was drunk, but no, that couldn’t be right. She sounded like she wasn’t really there, like she wasn’t hearing him, or didn’t care. Something was wrong.

“Lucy, is there something you want to tell me?”

Tell him? And look mad? Tell him this ring and this letter were scaring her to her toes? Say something!

“I’m fine, really. The house is no longer a crime scene, they cleared it this morning, but I’m not about to visit the attic, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Tell you what, Lucy, you stay right there, and I’ll be over with some takeout, all right? Sherlock and Coop won’t be back until late, a flight delay. I’ll call you later.”

She scarcely heard him. She punched off her cell and stared at the ring. That word—SEFYLL—when she’d said it aloud, when she’d said it correctly, time seemed to stop dead for a second or two, then replay itself. That sounded ridiculous. Was she being crazy? Maybe saying the word right on the ring conjured up some sort of weird hypnotic suggestion that made it appear that way.

Lucy took a deep breath, picked up the Chinese lamp that stood atop a side table, and flung it against the fireplace. As it shattered, she said clearly, “SEFYLL.”

Everything stopped, and suddenly the lamp was back on the end table, whole, untouched. She saw what seemed to be a small shudder in time itself. Another couple of seconds passed—nothing happened. She ran to the lamp, put her hands on it, and waited. More seconds passed, and still nothing happened, nothing at all. The Chinese lamp she’d hurled against the fireplace and smashed into a gazillion pieces was sitting, solid and unharmed, on the tabletop. She sat down in the large leather chair at her grandmother’s desk and stared in front of her. She wasn’t crazy, and if something unbelievable was happening, something incredible, she wouldn’t let it scare her stupid. She would understand it.

She began to experiment.

She held the ring—she learned she had to be holding it in her hand—and said the word clearly. Each time she did, the digital clock on her cell phone stopped, showed a time exactly eight seconds before, and with no pause, began to tick forward again. She hurled the lamp against the fireplace three more times just as she had before, and kept her eye on the second hand of her watch. As before, the lamp seemed to reassemble itself and the second hand on her watch always turned backward exactly eight seconds until it swept forward again.

Could she change anything she wanted in those eight seconds?

Lucy sat back down in the leather chair, her grandmother’s ring still on her middle finger, her hand fisted to keep it in place. Her grandfather had stolen it, hidden it, so she couldn’t use it again. Because he was afraid of what