“We should talk to McGregor first, then. If he’s not connected to all of this”—I sweep my hand out, indicating Grandpa’s files—“then we might as well close that door before we go see Dean.”
Wes gives me a look. “Are you sure you’re not just avoiding Dean?”
My heartbeat picks up at the thought of seeing Dean again. I may have had a hand in his disappearance, but if it really is him in the photo, then at least I didn’t get him killed. But still, to see him again and remember that moment when he disappeared into the TM, and the pain of imagining him ripped apart in time. To think of how it must have affected Mary and her parents and Lucas, forever left wondering what happened to him.
“I can’t decide if I want it to be Dean, or if I don’t.” My voice is quiet.
“It’ll be okay, either way.”
It’s not a promise he can make—I know that—but it doesn’t stop me from smiling at him as we stand up and head toward the subway.
We can’t bring Grandpa’s files with us to visit McGregor. They’re too bulky and too obvious—the name Peter Bentley is printed all over them in large red letters. If McGregor sees them, he’s bound to get suspicious. It’s not an aspect of the butterfly that I’m willing to chance, and Wes suggests we drop them off at his old home in the subway.
“Are you sure you want to go back there again?” I ask him as we walk down the sidewalk. “I know it was . . .” I search for the right word. “Hard for you.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “It’s fine. I like the idea of using it like it still belongs to me.”
I touch his wrist lightly. “Let’s go then.”
We take the subway back to 103rd Street. The station is different during the day, buzzing with life and noise and energy. It is harder to sneak onto the tracks; we have to wait for a train to come and go, until the platform is mostly empty.
We move quickly through the underground tunnels. No trains pass, but I hear one far away, rumbling the walls next to me and causing small pieces of dirt to fall from the ceiling down onto my hair.
When we reach Wes’s hideout, he pries open the outside door for me and I duck into the long hallway. I move forward, not waiting for Wes to join me. But as soon as I clear the other doorway, I skid to a stop.
The room isn’t empty. Two people are sitting on the floor with their backs to the wall. They stand up as soon as they see me.
Wes comes up behind me more slowly. He’s moving with that deliberate prowl, probably sensing long before me that we weren’t alone in here.
“Yo.” One of the intruders steps forward.
As he says it I recognize the boy who called to us in the street. His black hair is closely cropped, and he has a neat line shaved along one side of his head, twisting up around his right ear and ending at his temple.
The girl is still with him. She’s standing near the wall, watching us with narrowed eyes. Wes moves out of the doorway and stands next to me.
“I knew it was you.” The boy grins widely with bright white, crooked teeth. His features are just a little too blunt to be handsome, though the corners of his mouth naturally tilt up, as if at any moment he’s about to break into a grin. “Where have you been, man?” He steps closer to us, his arm outstretched.
“I think you’re mistaken.” Wes’s voice is so cold that even I shrink away from him a little bit.
“What are you talking about? It’s me. Tag.” The boy laughs a little. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”
Wes is silent.
“Come on, man. Tag. Remember Izzy and Little Pop and Jake? You’re here, aren’t you?” He gestures around the darkly lit room.
What is he talking about? Could Wes know this person?
The girl eyes me. She stands with one leg thrust in front of the other, her arms crossed. She sees me looking and her mouth twists, like she just tasted something sour.
Tag is shaking his head slowly back and forth. “Wes, man. I know you remember. Where the hell have you been?”
My mouth falls open. He knows Wes’s real name. I thought I was the only person in the world who knew Wes’s identity before he was taken in by the Project.
Wes was kidnapped in 1984 when he was only eleven years old. If he had stayed in this time period, he would be . . . sixteen in 1989. The age Tag appears to be now. This kid is someone from Wes’s old crew, someone who recognizes him even after all these years.
I look up into Wes’s face. He’s still frowning, but there’s a spark in his eyes I’ve never seen before. He recognizes this person, probably did from the minute Tag started yelling at us on the street. But all of his training is forcing him to deny it. To push away anyone who might try to get close to him.
My hands curl into fists. I refuse to let him keep closing himself off. Not from me, or from Tag, who cares enough about Wes to track him down here.
“Wes,” I say softly. He tears his gaze away from Tag and looks down at me. “It’s okay.”
Tag and the girl are watching us, but I tune them out and rise on my tiptoes so I can whisper into Wes’s ear. “No one has to know if you remember him. The Project will never find out. You can have a piece of your old life back.”
I rest my hand on his chest for leverage as I lean closer to him. I feel his heartbeat under my palm. “It’s okay.” I repeat the words,
