I drew a fortifying breath. “The thing is I think you may have already guessed the truth in the place I just came from.” The word ‘dead’ fused to my tongue. “Robbie, do you trust me?”
He nodded, the expression in his baby blue irises a clear combination of bewilderment and anticipation – that of anyone waiting breathlessly for the revelation of a substantial secret.
I held fast to his wrist. No more delaying. “In the life I just came from, you were…dead. I think Franklin Yancy killed you.”
Blank shock for several silent seconds.
Then he squinted as though attempting to focus, as if this would lend clarity to what I’d just said. He whispered, “Killed me?”
“I know this seems insane, Robbie, but you said you trusted me. Trust me with this. I’ve never been more serious.”
Robbie’s squint only grew more pronounced. “Tish, hang the fuck on. Assuming you’re correct, why would Franklin Yancy have me killed? I doubt he even knows I exist. I don’t have any dealings with him and I never have. He’s only about a hundred rungs higher than me on the social ladder.”
“I don’t have all the answers,” I admitted, retaining my hold on his wrist, the better to impress my sincerity upon him. “My best guess is that you discovered the truth about him. Somehow. Your last text to me suggested that you’d unearthed something big regarding Franklin. You were investigating at the time, you were my eyes and ears at the firm.” I winced, overcome by regret that I’d ever asked of him such a dangerous thing. “And evidence further suggests that Franklin and Christina are connected, probably intimately. I think you confided in her and that nasty bitch told him. Franklin’s ability is the Yancys’ biggest secret.”
“Hold up. What do you mean, his ‘ability?’ I’m so fucking confused.”
“I’ll explain.”
Thirty minutes later, safely ensconced in a more private booth near the entrance, I’d related to Robbie everything I knew. Despite his initial shock I knew he believed me, agreeing that we should enlist Derrick’s immediate help. And so Robbie had messaged Derrick via various social media avenues, requesting his presence at the bar. I restrained any fledgling sense of hope; it was too easy to assume Derrick would either refuse or simply blow us off, but he responded within a few minutes.
“We’d do well to keep our expectations low,” Robbie warned, setting aside his phone. “He only agreed to join us out of macabre curiosity. And of course because you’re here. He wanted you bad. Still does, I’m sure.” He tried for a hint of teasing to counteract his stun at the information I’d divulged, eyeing me with a wicked set to his brows. “Fastest way to extract answers from him is to promise the debauchery of his choice in return.”
“I’d rather jump from the nearest ledge.”
Robbie leaned forward over his forearms, nothing but earnest now. “Whatever it takes, whatever you need, I’m with you. I hope you know that.” A grimace crinkled his features as he added, “And not just because I want to avoid being dead.”
“I know, I really do. Thank you.” Moisture filmed my eyes and I grabbed for a cocktail napkin.
“Dry up those tears, he’s here.” Robbie sat facing the entrance and therefore commanded a clear view of anyone entering or exiting.
I turned in time to see Derrick removing a scarf as he scanned the crowd. His movements stilled as he caught sight of us but he rapidly regained his composure, chin just slightly elevated as he strode our way. He looked exactly how I remembered from my early days in Jalesville, arrogant and wholly unapproachable, but I was armed with a hundred times the knowledge I’d possessed then. I sat straighter, with a deep inhalation, mentally gathering up every scrap of information at my disposal.
“Gordon, Benson,” he pronounced upon reaching our booth. Formal, remote. He didn’t articulate the follow-up question but I heard it all the same, hovering near our noses – what gives?
“Do you have a few minutes?” I asked, squelching outright discomfort as I gestured at our table, doing my best to keep at bay any thoughts of potential repercussion. Fallon’s abilities were the Yancys’ most carefully guarded secrets, I knew well.
Robbie scooted over, silently offering him a seat. Derrick remained standing, his intense focus shifting between us, searching for the con, the punchline, the trap.
The sense of time running out beat again at my control; fearful that he would turn on his heel and exit the bar, I grabbed for his sleeve and went right for the jugular. “It’s about Fallon.”
Derrick could not contain his shock, showing immediate signs of withdrawal.
“Don’t go,” I begged, half-rising from the booth, not releasing my hold. “Please, sit. Give me five minutes.”
As though in a dream, Derrick complied. He didn’t remove his coat or sleek leather gloves, just sank to the booth. His gaze was dark and penetrating; he seemed momentarily incapable of speech.
Satisfied he wasn’t going to flee, I reclaimed my seat and pinned him with my undivided attention. “I know this seems crazy and I apologize. But I need your help.”
Derrick did not shift position. His irises could have been shards chipped from a wedge of granite.
I leaned forward, forcing myself to meet his exacting stare. “You called me last Sunday night. I wasn’t here in Chicago, though, I was in Montana. And you told me you were worried about Franklin. You told me you thought he was losing touch with reality, that he was dangerous.” I paused to inhale an anxiety-riddled breath; my heart was clipping along at the pace of my speech. “Furthermore, you told me the truth, which is that he’s a time traveler whose real name is Fallon Yancy. Your great-great-grandfather or uncle, I think, I’m honestly not sure which. You called to tell me that he’d just done something terrible, you weren’t sure exactly what, and then…” Fork tines seemed to stab the interior of my throat.
Derrick studied me with no hint
