“I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m sorry.” He sounds so serious. I scan his face, trying to read behind his words.
“What’s going on?” I repeat.
He frowns. There are thick lines bracketing his mouth that I never noticed before. “I’d like to know that too.”
I stare up at him. His green eyes—so much like my own, so much like my grandfather’s—are cold, and . . . indifferent. There’s not even a hint of recognition. After Wes, I’ve become somewhat of an expert on people who hide their emotions, but this is different. He’s not hiding anything, because there’s nothing left to hide.
Unless Dean is the world’s best actor—which I know he isn’t—then he honestly has no idea who I am.
“Oh my god. You look like Dean, you sound like him, but you’re not him, are you? You don’t remember anything.”
“What?” Both Dean and Wes look confused.
I clench my fists and try one more time. “Dean Bentley. That’s your name. You’re the son of Harriet and Jacob. Married to Elizabeth. Doesn’t any of this sound familiar? Try to remember,” I plead.
His frown deepens. “I am married. But my wife’s name is Theresa. Not Elizabeth.”
“What?” I press my hand to my chest. I feel the hard metal of Wes’s watch shift under my fingertips. “You’re married to someone here? In this time period? Did they make you marry her? Did they make you forget your old life?”
He bristles. “I’ve been a happily married man for two years, and no one makes me do anything. Except maybe my wife. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
“Wait. Please. I don’t understand. How can you not remember any of it? Not the Project? Not Eliza?” I feel tears form again, and I dig my fingernails into my palms, trying to use the pain of it to distract me.
“Lydia.” Wes touches my shoulder, but I ignore him, concentrating on Dean.
“What did they do to you? Please, you have to remember.”
I don’t even notice as an older man in a plain brown suit approaches. He extends his hand toward Wes, who takes it reluctantly. “Mr. Turner, general manager of the hotel. Is there a problem here?”
“No, sir.” Dean smiles pleasantly at the older man. “These two thought I was someone else. They’ve realized their mistake, and they’re leaving now.”
Mr. Turner looks Wes and me over. “Not the first time this has happened to you, is it, Frank? You must have a twin out there.”
I wipe at the tears on my cheeks, trying to hide how upset I am. “Was someone else here looking for Dean?”
“Dean?” Mr. Turner laughs. It’s a booming sound, and more of the people in the lobby turn to stare at us. “There was an older man who came around a few months back. We had to have security throw him out. Kept coming back and just sitting across the street, accosting Frank whenever his shift was over. People like that shouldn’t be allowed to roam the streets. They’re like wild dogs.” He smiles at us. “Strange coincidence, you two showing up and asking the same questions. I don’t need to call security again, now do I?”
“No.” Wes gently takes my arm. “We’re going.”
I let Wes lead me forward. We’re almost to the door when I stop. I can’t leave it like this. I can’t.
I yank away from Wes’s hold and spin around. Dean and Mr. Turner are still standing in the middle of the lobby watching us go. “What about your son?” I yell. “What about Peter? How could you forget Peter?”
Something flickers in Dean’s long, thin face, and I freeze. He remembers. But then whatever it is disappears, and he just stares at me, as blank as an empty canvas.
“You’re mistaken,” he says calmly. “I have no son.”
Wes and I leave the hotel. The tears are streaming down my face now, but I let them fall, making no move to wipe them away. Wes links his arm through mine, as though he’s some old-fashioned suitor, and leads me down the street. We walk in the opposite direction of the subway, toward a narrow, steep stretch of green grass. As we get closer, I realize that it’s a park built into the side of a hill. A jogger passes us and sees my face. He averts his eyes and keeps running, head down. A city person, used to ignoring something that makes them uncomfortable.
We sit down on a bench next to a cement pathway that winds through the park. Below us, a highway runs alongside the grass. I hear cars passing, a steady rushing noise that ebbs and flows like the waves of an ocean. It reminds me of Montauk, of home, and the thought of it causes a sharp pain to settle in the center of my chest.
“It’s like he’s a different person,” I say to Wes after a minute. My voice sounds high and nasal and I sniff loudly. The tears have finally stopped, but my nose is stuffed and I have that tender, sore feeling you get after crying. “Like they erased his mind.”
Wes reaches into the pocket of his slacks and pulls out a tissue. “Here.” He hands it to me.
It’s wadded up and torn, but I take it anyway and blow my nose. “Do you think that’s even possible?”
He leans forward, his elbows resting on his spread-apart knees. The pose somehow makes his body look longer, even though he’s bent almost in half. “I think anything’s possible when it comes to the Project.”
“He has amnesia or something. Maybe from the machine. Maybe they did it to him. But I looked into his eyes, Wes. He was gone. There was an emptiness I’ve never seen before.”
Wes is silent. I feel curiously empty too, hollowed out and no longer whole. “I wonder if Dean is still in there somewhere,” I say.
“If it was because of the Project, then probably
