“I don’t think so. But there’s one back at the squat.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“It’s in LJ’s room,” Wes continues. “Tag told me he built it out of spare parts and stuff. Apparently he was really into computers before his parents were killed.”
“Hopefully he’ll let us use it. He seemed so shy yesterday.” I slide out of the booth. “But first we need to stick to the plan and go find Dean. You’re right; I can’t put it off forever. We can deal with whatever’s on this disk later tonight.”
CHAPTER 13
Wes stares up at a large brick building that I immediately recognize from the newspaper clipping. “This is it. Seventy-ninth Street. You were right, it is a hotel.”
“The Richardson,” I read off the sign over the door. There’s a red awning out front, but no sign of a doorman, and no sign of Dean.
“Are you ready?” Wes asks.
I watch the glass doors of the hotel closely, waiting for Dean to walk outside at any moment. The anticipation is a wild thing inside of me, clawing and pacing in my stomach.
“I think so.”
It wasn’t hard to find the building Dean was standing in front of in the photo. We took the subway up to the neighborhood mentioned in the article, the Upper West Side, near Riverside Park. The first deli owner we talked to recognized the hotel, and sent us here, to Seventy-ninth Street and West End Avenue.
Wes and I walk up the wide steps. There’s no hotel staff outside, and I take a long, shallow breath. What if my grandfather was wrong, and it was just a Dean look-alike? What if it was him, but he’s quit since then, lost somewhere in this huge city, in this unfamiliar time?
The closer we get to the elaborately decorated double doors, the more ridiculous it seems: my great-grandfather from the forties was sent through a faulty time machine and ended up stranded in 1989, working as a doorman? I almost grab Wes’s arm, asking him to turn around, but we’ve come so far. I have to at least see what pushed my grandfather over the edge of sanity. I have to know if this person is really Dean.
We open the glass doors ourselves and enter a blue-and-gold lobby. A man is crossing the wide marble floor, coming right for us. He’s dressed in a blue uniform, with a small cap on his head. As soon as I see his face, I do grab Wes’s arm, but this time to steady myself. My grandfather wasn’t crazy. This man is Dean Bentley.
“Can I help you?” Dean asks in his familiar voice. He’s smiling broadly. He looks the same as he did in 1944, with heavy brows and military-short dark hair. “Sorry I wasn’t at my post, but let me get your luggage while you check in to the hotel.”
He gets a good look at our faces, and his smile fades. He recognizes us. “If you pardon me asking, you seem a little young to be checking in to a room by yourself. Are you staying with your parents today?”
“Dean.” I choke on the word. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry?” He looks confused; his brows furrow, causing sharp lines to appear on his forehead.
“It’s me. Lydia.” I feel tears gather in my eyes and I blink as Dean’s features blur. I never thought I’d see him again. I thought I was responsible for killing him. And here he is, standing right in front of me. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
“Lydia?”
I nod, and reach out my hands. “It’s me. I came here to . . . well, it’s a long story.”
“I don’t think I follow.”
I look into his face and see that he’s still confused. Is he just surprised that I’m in this time period? Is he afraid that the Project might be watching? I glance around the room and then lean in closer to him.
“It’s me. Lydia,” I whisper. “Your great-granddaughter.”
The man looks shocked, and then begins to laugh. The sound hits me right in the chest. Dean’s voice. His laugh. I never thought I’d hear it again. It makes me think of Mary, Lucas, and the Bentleys. I miss them so much, and I’ll most likely never see any of them again.
But here’s Dean. One small piece of that life I haven’t lost.
His voice cuts through my thoughts. “Do I look old enough to have a great-granddaughter?”
He doesn’t. It’s as though no time has passed, and he was never betrayed by the very Project he helped to build. As though Dr. Faust never threw him, broken and bleeding, into the time machine. I want to fling my arms around him, but his words begin to chip away at the joy that has been bubbling inside of me.
“It’s me. Lydia.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, I’ve never met a Lydia before.”
I look around the lobby again. Is it not safe? Are there people watching us even now? “Dean, I realize this might not be the best place to talk. We need to go somewhere private. I need to know how you survived the TM and how long you’ve been in this time period.”
His gaze becomes wary. “What’s a TM? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m sorry, but this conversation is starting to make me uncomfortable. I think you’ve confused me with someone else.”
“Lydia.” Wes is watching the people nearby. The lobby isn’t packed, but there are several guests standing next to the check-in counters, and a few of them are watching us. “We shouldn’t do this here.”
“Do you know someplace safe where we can talk?” I ask Dean, keeping my voice low.
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” His gaze shifts to somewhere over my shoulder, as though he’s looking for an escape. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He steps to the side, trying to
