We’re only inside for a few minutes before he stops over a metal grate. He yanks it up and shoves it to the side, then lowers himself into the hole. I follow, trusting him to catch me as I fall.
The room isn’t lit, and it’s hard to see where we are. I sense Wes standing in front of me and I step closer to him. From the smell of cleaning supplies, I would guess we’re in a supply closet, and I wonder briefly if it’s the one I ran into by mistake a few days ago.
“Why are we here?” I whisper.
I feel, rather than see, Wes walk to the door. “The vents don’t access Dean’s office. I discovered that when I snuck in to get you that folder.”
Wes opens the door a crack and light spills into the small room. He motions me forward.
The hallway is empty, and we inch along the side, keeping close to the wall. I hear the sound of a door opening, and Wes puts his hand out, stopping me. I hold my breath. We stand there, frozen and listening, but no one comes.
We continue through another door and down a short flight of stairs. I think I might recognize some of the hallways we pass through, but it’s hard to tell—everything looks the same. White concrete, gleaming metal doors, wide tiles covering the floor. We pass through another door. Pause to wait for a sound of footsteps to pass. Go. Stop again. Go. Another door.
Sweat glides down the center of my back, and my hands shake against my sides. We enter a silver corridor that I know I’ve never seen before. The floor, the ceiling, everything is metal. Dozens of doors line each side.
I jump when I hear the sound of someone moaning. I think it’s coming from one of the doors near me and instinctively turn toward it. Wes shakes his head and grabs my arm. He leads me down the hallway and out into another white hall. “What was that?” I whisper.
“Cells,” he replies under his breath.
I shudder. We turn a corner and then Wes points to a narrow door on the right. I step forward, but Wes pushes me gently behind him. He opens the door to Dean’s office quickly and slips inside.
Dean is hunched over a large desk with his fingers pressed against his temples. The room around him is gray and bare. I notice that he’s wearing a black uniform that matches those of the other guards in the Facility.
Dean bolts upright when he sees Wes. “What—”
He notices me and goes still.
“Lydia. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Dean.” I step forward. Wes stays by the door, keeping watch. “We don’t have much time. I need to talk to you.”
“What’s going on?” he demands. “Who are you?”
There’s a gun lying on the surface of his desk. Dean’s fingers twitch. Wes has his eyes glued to the weapon.
I take a step forward. “I’m here to warn you. I know about the Montauk Project. And about the Recruitment Initiative. It’s not what you think.”
“You are a spy.” Dean’s face twists; his voice is grim.
“No. I’m a time traveler. And I’m your great-granddaughter.”
His mouth falls open as I tell him about stumbling into the time machine and ending up in 1944.
“Peter is my grandfather. I’m a Bentley, and I have something really important to tell you.”
His face is white, ashen. “Prove it.”
“What?”
“If you are who you say you are, then prove it.”
My mind races. “How? I can tell you something that happens in the future, but you won’t know if it’s true or not yet.”
“Tell me something about Peter. Something only he and I would know.”
I desperately try to think of a memory involving both of them. “He hates peas,” I blurt. “He’s always hated them, because he said that once you made him canned peas when his mother wasn’t home and that he put cold butter on them to try to make them taste better, but they turned into cold gray-green mush. You wouldn’t let him get up from the table until he finished. After that he couldn’t eat them without throwing up.”
Dean’s eyes widen slightly. “How do I know he didn’t tell you that story in the past few days?” Though I might have shaken him, he isn’t convinced.
“He has a scar,” I say frantically. “On his stomach. His appendix ruptured when he was only three. It’s in a straight line, next to his belly button.”
“You could have seen that anytime.”
I look helplessly at Wes. He meets my eyes briefly. There’s a steadiness in his eyes that makes me start to think more clearly.
I turn to Dean. “There’s a cubbyhole in Peter’s room. Under his bed. He doesn’t think anyone knows about it. It’s where he hides his treasures. There’s a red tin box with a picture of a bear on the top. He’s only ever shown it to you after you gave him a picture of yourself.”
Dean is silent, his green eyes wide.
“Look, you can argue with everything I say, but here’s the truth: you disappear forever. Tomorrow or today, I don’t know anymore.”
I shake my head, frustrated. “Peter grows up without a father. At first I thought you were going on the Project Hero mission to kill Hitler.”
He looks at me with surprise, but I ignore him. “But then I found out you’re the one who runs the Recruitment Initiative. So now I don’t know how you disappear, I just know it happens. You need to be careful, Dean.”
He drops back down into his desk chair and buries his face in his hands. “You came to tell me I’m going to die.”
I take another step forward. “I came to warn you.”
He looks up. His face seems to have aged in an instant; the grooves near his mouth look deeper; his eyes are drooping at the corners. “Is that all?”
I exchange a glance with Wes. “No.
