LJ suddenly appears next to us, his hand closing over an orange. He moves so quietly that it takes me a minute to realize he’s there.
Speaking of missing people. “Where’s Wes?”
“He’s in the bathroom,” LJ replies.
I grab an apple and turn to leave the room.
“We had to talk him out of going after you.” Tag’s voice makes me pause near the door. “I convinced him that Nikki could take care of herself.”
“So can I,” I snap without turning around.
“Wes knows that. He said you were tough.” Tag’s voice becomes softer. “But he was pretty upset when he realized you weren’t here.”
I sigh and step into Tag’s room.
The bathroom door is open and I see Wes inside, standing near the sink. He’s bent over, his hands cupped around the chipped porcelain. He’s gripping it so hard his knuckles have turned a sickly blue color, and he’s shaking. His back, his arms, his legs. Every part of him trembles.
I stop in the middle of the bedroom. Wes doesn’t even seem to notice me, which is alarming enough; he always seems to know when I’m in a room.
But not this time.
The shaking gets more violent, enough to rattle the sink against the wall. I start to wonder if he’s having a seizure. I take a step closer.
His eyes cut to the side as he finally notices me. He stands up and his body stills. But the movement costs him—his face is pale white, and I can see the sweat gathering on the back of his neck.
“Wes.” I move forward. “Are you okay? What was that?”
“Nothing.” His voice is cracked and low. He clears his throat. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? It looked—”
“I’m fine, Lydia.” He shouts the words, and I freeze, a few feet away from him. Just yesterday, I was thinking how natural he seemed to be in this squat, but now it is as though he is made of glass and any touch will shatter him.
There’s a pause. Wes ignores me, staring down at his hands.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I finally say.
“Nothing. I was worried about you, that’s all.”
“I’m not the one shaking in a bathroom.”
“It was nothing. Forget about it.” He takes a deep breath, in and out, and then his shoulders fall and he steps forward. “We should go see McGregor before it gets too late.”
I nod, still watching him carefully. Something is very, very wrong, but I know Wes well enough to know that he won’t tell me. At least not until he’s ready.
I press the red apple into his palms, where it looks smaller than it is, dwarfed by his large hands. “Eat this,” I tell him, instead of what I’m really thinking. “You have to keep your strength up.”
“Thanks.”
He turns and walks from the room. I follow him, wishing I knew how to solve all of the problems we’re facing. Even if I don’t fully understand what they are.
CHAPTER 12
John McGregor? Hi, this is Sarah Bernstein from the East Hampton Star. We’re interested in interviewing you about the upcoming election.” I hold the pay phone as far away from my ear as I can. I thought the subway smelled like urine, but it has nothing on this phone booth. “I know this is unorthodox, to approach you directly, but since you’re from Montauk I was wondering if you’d be willing to do a last-minute favor for a local paper?”
“Um . . . sure. That shouldn’t be a problem.” His voice sounds muffled in my ear. “When were you thinking?”
I look up at his building across the street. The glass walls of this booth are smudged, but I think I can still pinpoint the window to McGregor’s apartment. “Would now be okay? I’m in the city with a colleague, and we’re not far from your neighborhood.”
“I . . . I guess that’s fine. There’s a diner near Battery Park called Timmy’s Luncheonette. I could meet you there in half an hour.”
“Great. See you soon.” I hang up and step out of the booth. Wes is leaning against the glass, watching me closely.
“It worked?”
“I told you it would.”
I adjust my dress and stare at my reflection in the window of a nearby deli. The lipstick Nikki let me borrow is starting to melt in the heat and I wipe away a smudge under my bottom lip.
Wes straightens. His hair is gelled again, and he’s wearing the pinstriped shirt, though it is now wrinkled and a little stained. Hopefully McGregor won’t examine us too carefully.
We’re not carrying anything except for the newspaper clipping of Dean, tucked into Wes’s pocket. He convinced me to leave the rest of my grandfather’s files at the squat, telling me we wouldn’t need the information and that Tag would keep it safe. It’s a testament to how much Wes obviously trusts him.
“You ready?”
“Yep.”
The clipped word makes Wes pause. “Lydia. About last night.”
I refuse to look at him, instead walking down the sidewalk toward the neon green Luncheonette sign. “I don’t care about last night.” I stop and smooth my hands over my dress. “Okay, that’s not true. I do. But I’m not going to fight you on it, Wes. I’ll save my grandfather and go back to my own time.” A passing businessman gives me a look, but I ignore him. “But . . . I just . . . want to know that you’re okay. It’s not only the shaking. You seem different. Something isn’t right.”
He runs his hand over his hair in a nervous gesture. “It was nothing. I’m the same.”
I stare at him for a moment, but he won’t meet my eyes. “Okay, Wes. Have it your way.” I step forward, so that I’m no longer in his shadow. “Let’s go meet McGregor.”
The lighting in the diner is harsh, making the bags under John McGregor’s eyes look deep and sallow. “I was surprised that the Star would have heard about this election.” He turns a pink packet
