“Who’s Malcolm? What does he mean to you?” Mathias persisted, eyes tracking all over my face, seeking answers. “You’re crying about this. What am I missing here?”
My choices diminished to one; I had to leave – now.
I shifted to stand but Mathias caught my elbow. “Please, Camille,” he begged, hoarse with mounting emotion; I was all but done in by the sound of my name on his lips. “Don’t go. Tell me what this is about. It’s something important, isn’t it?”
I pulled away, unable to brave his staggered gaze as I asked, “Can I keep this newspaper?”
He studied me with a pulse pounding in his throat; I restrained the absolute need to collapse against his powerful chest and cling. I despised running away like this but I’d done too much damage already. He said, “Of course. But can you at least tell me what this is about? I don’t understand…”
“No,” I whispered. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
I fled before he could say another word.
Chapter Eighteen
Chicago, IL - March, 2014
SATURDAY EVENING CREPT AROUND.
I’d existed nearly a week in this repulsive offshoot timeline, a series of days which inched past my nose, creating the sickening sensation that more than a century had actually elapsed. Though I could have ventured to my “office” at Turnbull and Hinckley on Friday I chose instead to hide out at Dad’s, feigning illness. Derrick’s warning had petrified me in more ways than one; I was simultaneously terrified and, in essence, frozen solid. I made Robbie promise to hold off on any further investigative work and lay low. I told him I would regroup and keep him posted on anything I discovered. He had agreed to escort me to the benefit dinner downtown, much to Dad’s delight; he adored Robbie. I had not revealed a thing to my father as of yet.
Emotionally trampled, tripped up by indecision and a maddening lack of choices, I spent Friday huddled in bed, politely declining Lanny’s invitation to join her for a manicure, then spending hours scrolling obsessively through every last online image or mention I could find of Case; in this timeline, without the encouraging presence of the Rawleys, he had not spent time pursuing his music. I didn’t bathe or eat; I could hardly rally the energy to shuffle to my small, private bathroom, battling an increasing sense of hopelessness. The inevitability of relenting to this timeline hovered so near I could feel its damp breath.
When I saw Camille’s name flash across my phone late Friday afternoon, I debated not answering – but I couldn’t leave her hanging.
“Hey,” I whispered.
“I found something!” Her voice was a strange mixture of strong emotion, wobbling with intensity as she rushed to explain. “I spent this morning in the attic at the Carters’ and found an old Landon Sentinel with an obituary –”
“Oh God, whose?” I cried, flying from beneath the covers, heartrate spiking.
“No one we know, don’t worry. Here, I’ll pull over to read it to you.” She did, and I leaned forward in my desire to absorb her every word.
“Who wrote it?” I demanded.
“Get this, Tish, a woman named Lorissa Davis. I’m almost certain she’s the ‘Lorie’ mentioned in the list of Edward Tilson’s survivors and no doubt the same person Malcolm was writing to in 1876. Lorie was our ancestor. And she knew Blythe’s ancestor.”
“Breathe,” I ordered, clutching the phone with both hands, startled by the tone of my sister’s voice; she sounded about three seconds from hysteria. Something else occurred to me. “You saw Mathias, didn’t you? Oh, Milla, I’m sorry…”
Her sudden, abject sobs were the only confirmation I needed.
“Shit, don’t try to drive for a minute, okay? Stay where you are. I’m so sorry.”
“I couldn’t tell him the truth, Tish. Oh God, he has twins…it hurts so much…”
“I know, I really do.” The bridge of my nose stung just listening to her pain.
After a minute she was able to draw several ragged breaths. “I just left their house, I’m still shaking.”
“It’s okay. Let’s consider this information.” For the first time since speaking with Derrick, I experienced a small sense of control. “First, Blythe’s ancestor, Edward Tilson, lived in Minnesota. Second, he lived with the Carters and knew the Davises. What’s more, none of his children lived beyond him. This doctor was the last Tilson.” The excitement of closing in on key details rose like an old friend in my chest. “Edward wasn’t supposed to be the last Tilson, because otherwise the Blythe we know would never have existed.”
“And Edward’s son, nineteenth-century Blythe, died in 1882! That can’t be a coincidence.”
“He didn’t just die, he was ‘killed’ it said,” I reminded her, twining a curl around my index finger until it cut off the blood supply at the tip. “Fallon killed him, I’m sure of it.” The simple act of speaking Fallon’s name aloud set the hairs on my nape standing on end; my gaze spanned the circumference of my bedroom, unpleasantly gloomy in the late-afternoon light. It was too quiet, the air holding its breath, and a shiver blazed over my scalp – driven by instinct I dropped the phone to grab the tall, slender brass lamp on my nightstand, yanking its cord from the wall. Clutching it like a weapon I leaped into the hallway, fully prepared to split Fallon Yancy’s head like an overripe watermelon.
The hall was empty but I race-walked room to room anyway, clicking every light fixture into existence.
Camille’s voice demanded my attention from the abandoned phone. “Tish, what are you doing?!”
“It’s all right, I just had a bad feeling,” I explained when I was back on the line, breathless with exertion.
“Are you coming home now?” she asked.
“I have the benefit dinner tomorrow night, remember?”
“Don’t go. Talk about bad feelings!”
“I have to. Fallon might show up. I can’t lose this chance to confront him.”
“Tish, goddammit! He’s dangerous. Have you told Dad anything?”
“No,” I admitted. Thank God I hadn’t revealed any of what Derrick said Thursday evening; Camille’s next move would
