I tilt my head as I study him. I only met Lucas two days ago, and I’ve been so distracted—by the Montauk Project, Dean, Wes—that I never considered him as anything other than a nice guy who helped me when I needed it. But for that brief moment when I thought he was flirting with me, I became aware of him in a new way. Now I’m starting to see what Mary meant about him being “drooly.”
My cheeks burn at the thought, and I glance down at the table. “You must miss them,” I say quickly.
“We write.” He shrugs, dismissing the topic. “So you’re settling in okay?”
I nod and bite my lip. He mimics the motion and I laugh. Our eyes meet.
In my peripheral vision I see a navy uniform. I quickly turn my head to see Wes standing near the side door. His gaze cuts to me for a second, a flicker of black, before he slips out of the room.
I automatically jerk forward. “Lucas, I’m sorry, but I have to …” I rush from the table.
“What—?” I hear Lucas ask behind me, but I’m already gone.
The late afternoon sunlight is bright, with clouds moving in thin streaks across the sky. I stop outside the door of the church, scanning the yard in front of me. It’s empty, with neatly cut grass stretching toward a few low, scrubby-looking trees. Beyond that the dunes rise up, covered in long, swaying grass. I can just glimpse the ocean through the gaps in the sand.
I walk across the yard, past the trees, until I reach a large dune. My shoes sink into the sand, some of it sliding into my short socks, rough against my ankle. I hop on each foot as I pull my shoes and socks off and hold them in one hand as I climb to the top of the bank.
Wes stands on the deserted beach. From a distance he looks like someone taking a casual moment to watch the waves break against the shore. But as I get closer, I see the contained way he carries himself: the subtle stiffness in his posture, the deliberate placement of his arms and legs.
As I walk up to him, he turns his head. The motion is so quick that I stop abruptly and drop my shoes onto the sand.
“The soldier you were talking to. Who is he?” Wes says it so quietly that I strain to hear him over the sound of the waves. His voice is different from how it was in the woods. It’s no longer soothing and easy but stiff and slightly robotic. There is something in the way his jaw clenches that makes me think my answer is important to him.
He stares at me as he speaks. He doesn’t fidget, he doesn’t look around. For some reason it annoys me, and I cross my arms over my chest as I answer him. “That’s none of your business.”
He turns to face me without breaking eye contact. “Lydia. You being here isn’t right. This isn’t your time.”
I step closer to him. I can smell the salt of the ocean, and something else—something spicy and clean, like pine needles and rain. “Why didn’t you tell me I traveled through time? And why did you help me get out of the labs?” As soon as I ask one question, I think of another, and another, and I can’t stop as they pour out of me. “Are you connected to the Montauk Project? Are you a guard there? Why didn’t you kill me for knowing too much? Who are you?”
The corners of his lips tighten slightly.
“This isn’t a joke,” I say coldly. “I refuse to be in the dark, stumbling around trying to figure out what’s happening.”
“I know it’s not a joke.” He’s serious again. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
I find myself growing defensive at his tone. “It’s not like I meant to go back in time. I didn’t know what would happen in that machine. Maybe I shouldn’t have pressed a button, but I was trying to get away from you!”
He shifts closer to me. The movement is so small it’s almost invisible but I notice it instinctively. “I wasn’t going to hurt you.”
“I didn’t know that. I still don’t know that.”
Wes takes a full step closer and we’re only a few feet apart. He’s tall, just a little shorter than Grant. I’m not that short, but I have to crane my neck to look up into his face. The sun is behind him and it reflects off the metal buttons of his uniform. I wonder briefly where he found it—then where he’s been sleeping and what he’s been doing for these past two days. I look at his clean-shaven face, at his newly cut military-short hair and decide he can probably take care of himself.
“I won’t ever hurt you, Lydia.” He sounds so sincere that I feel most of my anger and fear dissolve. I’m not even surprised that he knows my name.
I take a deep breath. I won’t let him distract me from the reason I’m here. I need answers. “Let’s start from the beginning. Why was the bunker open?”
For a moment I think he won’t answer. Then he says, “There was a security breach. That door opened automatically. It’s not a commonly used entrance—it’s usually sealed shut.”
“A security breach? Who was it?”
“I …” he hesitates. “I left the Facility before the suspect was apprehended.”
“Is that what you call the underground lab? The Facility?”
He nods.
The wind whips the curls around my face. I brush them away impatiently. Wes follows the movement with his eyes.
