Of course it does.
“It didn’t work when I first got it and then…” I brought it to you. Yes, I nearly say that, but I yank the words back because then I’d really sound nuts.
Besides, it has occurred to me, slowly, that something has happened to his wife over the past twenty-plus years, and I don’t want to be trapped into having to expound how we know each other. He might start asking questions.
I might start having to lie.
But I feel for him. If I lost Eve I’d end up stripped of life, gaunt, hollowed out. So I finish with, “…suddenly, yesterday, it started working.”
“How?” He puts down the stethoscope.
“I was…” I’m searching my brain to catalog the exact events. “In my study. And I was looking over my old cold cases—one of these being the bombing from yesterday, and today…” And tomorrow. I debate that and skip over it. “And suddenly the watch started working.”
“You wound it, right?”
I frown. Then. “Yes.”
“Then, of course, it started working.”
“What do you mean, of course it started working? It wasn’t working before. At all. Then…it just started ticking.”
He lifts a shoulder. “That’s how it’s supposed to work. It’s a timepiece. It ticks off time.” He hands the watch back to me. “It looks like it’s working exactly how it’s intended.”
I stare at him. Because, well, you know, that’s what he said before. Or will say.
Oh brother.
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean,” he says and stands up.
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “It’s…did you hear me? I think I…” I close my eyes, wincing even as I say it. “I think I traveled in time.”
Silence, and I open my eyes. He stares at me, one eyebrow raised.
I can’t stop myself, the words rushing out, a catharsis. “By twenty-four years. One minute it’s 2021 the next…” I shake my head. “The next I’m watching the past repeat itself. I’m watching people die, again. And today…well, I thought it was a dream at first, but…” I press my hand to my forehead because my head is pounding.
He considers me, arms crossed over his chest long enough for me to think maybe I’m losing my mind. Behind him, the sun’s rays filter through the window, tiny particles dancing on the streams, and the room is turning woozy and hot.
Maybe, really, maybe this is a dream, the variety that involves me being hospitalized. Maybe I was hit by a car and I’m in a coma—
“Be Stalwart,” he says quietly.
I look up at him.
“It means be dependable.”
“I know what it means.”
“Loyal.”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Faithful, devoted, unwavering—”
“I know what it means!”
“And?” His voice falls. “Are you?”
I blink at him. Open my mouth. Close it. “I don’t know.”
That’s when the room starts to pitch. Sideways, my head about to explode. I reach for the wall and find instead his hand on my arm, guiding me to a chair.
I dip my head forward, cradling it in my hands.
His hand falls on my shoulder. “Cold cases, you say?”
So he was listening. I nod.
“Unanswered questions, promises unkept.”
I draw in a breath. Look up at him. “Is this real?”
“Tell me. How did you find me?” Those blue eyes hold mine like a vice.
“We met before.”
He gives the slightest of nods. “We will meet, then.”
I return the nod.
“And what do I tell you?”
“That…that the watch is working.”
He smiles. “Indeed.”
His hand squeezes my shoulder and a moment later, Sheila comes in with the lemonade. She hands it to me. “Fresh squeezed. Nothing artificial. But it’s a little tart, so be careful.” Then she grins and takes Art’s hand just like Eve has taken mine for the past million years.
I really miss Eve.
“Can I get back?” I whisper, taking a drink. It is tart, and my throat tightens, my eyes burning.
“Yes.” He pauses and draws in a breath. “I think so.”
A fist releases inside me.
“Can I change things?”
“How would I know?” he says quietly.
“How long am I here?”
He lifts a shoulder. “But I think you should hurry.”
I finish the lemonade, and down the hallway, the grandfather clock chimes.
He takes the glass from me and nods toward the door. “Be stalwart, Inspector Stone.”
Chapter 14
"I suppose you’re going to miss a lot more breakfasts.”
Eve looked up from the magnifying glass and her examination of the fabric that matched the bomber’s backpack to spot her father as he came into her lab. Inspector Mulligan held his jacket by a thumb over his shoulder, his tie loosened, a haze of whiskers on his face.
“Are you just getting off, or are you starting your shift?”
He dropped the jacket on a nearby folding chair and came over, pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Just getting off and heading home now. We missed you this morning.”
“We have to catch this guy.” She offered him a smile, the best she could give at the moment. After eight hours dissecting the debris from today’s Lyndale bombing, sorting evidence, ordering tests and sketching out a preliminary crime scene, her feet ached, her eyes burned.
“Your poor mother.” He shook his head. “In her head, you’re still thirteen.”
“She’s not the only one who thinks that.” She raised an eyebrow.
“Fifteen, max,” he said and winked. “Why are you the only one here?”
“Silas will be back any minute. He went downtown to drop off samples for testing, but we’re fairly sure the bomber used the same ingredients as the Franklin Avenue bomb—ammonium nitrate, fuel oil, and antimony sulfide.”
She pulled off her rubber gloves, touched her pinky to a black residue on a slide tray. “Taste this.”
“What? No.”
She laughed. “Chicken. If you did, you’d discover it tastes sweet, and a little metallic. That’s antimony sulfide. It’s used in fireworks. And in its pure form, is used in batteries and even bullets.”
“Fireworks, huh?”
“Mmmhmm. This time, the bomb was packed into an old thermos, the kind someone might use for soup in their lunch.” She pointed to the torn, curved metallic shards. “Smaller than yesterday’s, although still deadly.”
She walked
