“My father disappeared when I was young.” His voice is slow, a little dreamy. “I knew they did it. I knew it. I went looking. I spent my whole life looking.”
“Looking for what?” I can’t help but ask.
“For them. She said he was bad, but she was wrong. He was the victim. They were the villains. She knew he was part of it.”
“Who said he was bad?”
“Lydia.”
I whip my head around to look at Wes. He frowns, and I know we’re both remembering that day in the woods behind my great-grandparents’ house, when Peter overheard me talking about Dean and the Recruitment Initiative. In a fit of anger and confusion, I did say that Dean was the bad guy. Is that the moment that I changed the course of history?
“Later I knew. I found the journal. I read what he wrote, and I knew that she knew something. But she was gone too. I searched for him, for them both.”
“But you didn’t find them,” I say, my voice small.
He smirks. “Who says I didn’t find them?”
“What does that mean?” I lean forward, McGregor and the election forgotten.
Grandpa’s smirk turns into a wide smile. He really does look crazy, with his wild eyes and long, messy hair. Like the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland.
“What are you saying?” I move even closer to him and the wide neck of my dress slips to the side, falling down over one shoulder and exposing my upper arm. I start to yank it back up, but my grandpa reaches out and grabs my arm.
His face is pale. “You have it. You have the mark.”
“What are you talking about?” I try to pull away, but his fingers are claws that dig into my skin.
“The mark.” He wrenches his gaze away from my arm. His eyes focus like lasers on Wes. “Do you have it too?”
Wes steps forward, ready to pull me away.
But Grandpa lets go of me on his own, throwing my hand to the side like my skin is radioactive. “Who are you?” His voice is higher. He sounds horrified. “You’ve come for me, just like you came for him. I know too much, don’t I? I know too much.”
I back away from Grandpa, stopping when my body hits Wes. His hands come up and close around my shoulders.
Grandpa is starting to thrash in the bed, twisting from side to side. “You’re one of them!” he screams. “Don’t take me! I’m not ready! I’m not ready!”
I press my hands to my open mouth. What did I do? Why is he acting like this? The door bursts open and two nurses rush into the room along with two members of hospital security.
“Hold him down,” one of the nurses says.
The two security guards grab his arms and torso. He struggles against them, still screaming. “You have it! The mark! You’re one of them!”
Wes and I back away, moving as one unit. His hands tighten on my shoulders.
They are strapping Grandpa to the bed using cloth ties. A doctor in a white coat enters the room carrying a large syringe. She presses the needle into the pale skin of my grandfather’s neck as the guards hold him down.
“This will help calm you, Peter,” she says in an even tone. I almost don’t hear her over his shouting.
I feel someone touch my arm, and I jerk to the side. But it’s just the male nurse from before. “You better go,” he says.
I nod and follow him to the door. My grandfather’s screams have become whimpers. He is no longer shouting, but his breathing is heavy and labored.
I turn back to look at him right before I leave the room. He is staring at me. “You have it.” His words are garbled, as though some invisible force is strangling him. “The mark of the traveler.”
The nurse leads us to the main exit. The door to the nurses’ station is open and the hallway is empty—all of the other nurses on duty must be in with my grandfather.
“Sorry about that,” the bald nurse says as he steps into the office. He starts to rummage through a drawer, most likely looking for the key to let us out of the ward.
I blink rapidly, trying not to cry. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He has a delusional disorder.”
“A what?”
“It’s a rare psychological condition where a patient becomes obsessed with some wacko idea and lets it take control of his life. It’s odd though—he has no record of past psychosis. Our patients usually have a long history of being in and out of hospitals.” He shrugs. “But sometimes it can come on later in life. It’s just a shame that he can’t stay here anymore.”
“He can’t?”
“We’re not a long-term care facility. We try to rehab our patients and stabilize them enough to enter society, but I don’t think that’s an option for your uncle. . . .”
I don’t either, based on what I just saw. “Where will you send him?”
“Rockland State Hospital, probably.”
Wes glances back in the direction of Grandpa’s room. “Is there any way for us to see his files?”
The nurse shakes his head. “Only his doctors have access to those. Not even family.”
There’s a loud banging noise, and I hear screaming coming from a nearby room. “Excuse me,” the nurse says. “I have to check on that. Wait here, okay? I’ll unlock the door for you in a minute.” As soon as I nod, he takes off down the hallway at a sprint.
I turn to see Wes watching me carefully. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“I’m sorry.” He reaches out and traces the curve of my cheek with his finger. I close my eyes at his touch, but he drops his hand quickly.
“The last time I didn’t believe in him,
