I turn to the window, where the black fabric hides the night sky. Wes is out there somewhere. He followed me to the past. He helped me escape. I need to find him again. He’s the only one who can tell me about the Montauk Project. And, for some reason, he might want to help me.
I wonder if he’s furious that I left him in the woods. I wonder if he’s looking for me, and if he wants to take me back into the underground labs. I look away from the window. While I’m not exactly glad that I’m temporarily trapped in 1944, I can’t deny that it’s exciting—and feels important—to meet my relatives, to see the past, and to get more answers about what will happen to my great-grandfather in the coming days.
I always thought going off to college and becoming a journalist would be my big adventure. But this feels bigger.
Maybe I am supposed to do more than just figure out the truth of what really happened to Dean. This might be my chance to make a difference, and to help my family. Dean will disappear in just a few days unless I can figure out a way to stop it. But should I try to fix the past instead of just learning its secrets?
It’s one thing to look for answers; it’s another thing entirely to change the question.
Overwhelmed, I lie back on the bed. The model airplanes stir in the empty air above my head, suspended forever, flying nowhere.
CHAPTER 8
Iwake to the sound of raised voices. The dress Mary gave me yesterday is draped over the back of a chair. I pull it over my head and quickly yank out the rag rollers in my hair. Heavy curls fall in ropes down my back. I slip out of the room and creep down the stairs, stopping at the bottom step.
Dr. and Mrs. Bentley are in the parlor, perched on the overstuffed cream and yellow couches. A tall, dark-haired man about ten years older than me paces in front of the fireplace. I immediately recognize him from my grandfather’s photograph: it’s Dean Bentley, my great-grandfather.
“What were you thinking? How could you just let a stranger into the house?”
Someone clears his throat, and I notice that Lucas is sitting on a chair by the window. Both he and Dean are wearing fitted dark olive jackets over their uniforms.
“It wasn’t like that, Dean.” Lucas’s voice is firm.
Dean scowls at him. He’s squeezing a light brown cap tightly in one hand. It has a visor and a gold metal eagle attached to the top. “Don’t you dare talk to me right now, Clarke. Mary told me it was your idea for that girl to stay here. How could you put my family in this position?”
Lucas stands up. “Lydia needed help.” His face is harsh, with only his words suggesting the warmth I saw yesterday.
“You could have passed her on to the Red Cross, or one of the women’s organizations. You didn’t need to bring my family into it.”
The two men square off across the parlor. Dr. Bentley stands, stepping between them. “We’re happy to take Lydia in—”
Dean cuts him off harshly. “She’s a stranger.”
“Stop this.” Mrs. Bentley holds up her hands. Her voice is filled with a quiet authority. “Arguing isn’t helping. Lydia has nowhere to go. We need to help our neighbors during wartime.”
Both Dean and Lucas look at her and step away from each other. Dean faces the mantel and rests his arm on it heavily. He lowers his head, visibly collecting himself. Lucas turns to the window, his shoulders tense.
“Find out anything good?” I hear a voice say quietly behind me. I spin around on the steps to see Mary leaning over the stair railing.
“Not really,” I whisper back.
She laughs and skips down the stairs, her blue dress fluttering around her legs. It has a pattern of all white roses, and a matching ribbon is threaded through her curly hair.
“Come on. It’s time you met Dean.”
The conversation stops when we reach the parlor. I hover near the doorway, gripping the fabric of my skirt with both hands.
“Just look, Daddy! Isn’t Lydia such a dilly?”
Dr. Bentley smiles, so I assume being a dilly is a good thing.
“Hi, Lucas. When did you get here? Has Dean been talking your ears off? I bet he has.” Mary pulls me into the room.
Lucas’s eyes slowly scan my dress and my clean, curled hair. He opens his mouth, then shuts it.
“Mary, could you stop talking for two minutes?” Dean snaps. “We need to figure out what to do about … this situation.” He waves in my direction.
“What’s there to figure out? Lydia’s staying with us. And she isn’t a spy. Just look at her!”
“Putting her in a pretty dress doesn’t make her any less of a spy.” Dean glares at me. I glance around the room in an effort to avoid his stare. Framed black-and-white photos are propped on the fireplace mantel. Mary and Dean with their arms around each other, standing in front of the house. A small, dark-haired boy standing with Dean and a blond lady. A family portrait, taken in this parlor, everyone smiling into the camera.
“Oh, phooey.” Mary drops my arm and stalks across the floor toward Dean. “You don’t know anything.”
He leans down to look her in the eye. “Mary, we’re a country at war. You’d think that would teach you to be careful around strangers.”
She scowls at him, her hands on her hips. “I trust Lydia.”
“Why? Because you want a new friend?”
Lucas turns to me, ignoring the siblings. “How are you feeling, Lydia? You look …” He pauses, clearing his throat. “Well. Better. I
