“You’re a conspiracy theorist. And you came here to meet Lydia—I mean me,” I repeat.
He gives me a calculating look. “You’re Montauk17, right? We’ve been talking for months. You said you had some new information on why your grandfather disappeared. And I have some new information too. On . . .” He leans in closer. “On the rebellion.”
“What rebellion?” I ask, despite myself. I had no idea that Lydia 2 was going on message boards to talk about the Montauk Project, though it makes sense that she would try to connect with other conspiracy theorists. I wonder how much information she actually uncovered.
I quickly look at the exposed front windows of the shop. If this man is too close to the truth, the Project might be watching him.
“I think it’s only a matter of time before we’ll be organized.” His voice drops. “That’s just the beginning. I have a list of everyone they’ve taken, Lydia. You know that. I’ve been using it to find them.”
I know I should make him leave, but the curiosity is too great. “Everyone they’re taken. Do you mean . . . ?”
His brown eyes are wide, making him look a little unhinged as he says, “Recruits.”
I jerk back. “Recruits? You know how to find a recruit?”
“Not yet. But I’ve been tracking someone. I’m close to making contact.”
Can he really find a recruit? Could he find Wes? And then his words fully sink in. At best, this man is a conspiracy nut who stumbled into something he doesn’t understand—because there’s no way he’d be able to make contact with a recruit. They’d kill him first. At worst, he’s working with the Project and was sent here because Lydia 2 was getting too close to the truth. Or maybe he’s here for me. Maybe they’ve finally realized I was involved in time line changes in 1944. He could be trying to feel me out, to discover how much information I have before he kills me.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap, trying to ignore how fast my heart is beating.
His expressive eyebrows almost meet in the middle of his forehead as he frowns. “I do. Trust me.”
“I have no reason to trust you.” I take a step back and press the phone into my chest. It makes a sharp noise as it collides with Wes’s watch. “You need to leave now.”
“Lydia . . .” He moves closer to me, and I flinch away from him. “I need your help.”
“If you don’t leave I’m calling the police.”
He grits his teeth together and holds up both hands. “Okay. Okay. I’m leaving.” He starts to back away. I watch him go, holding my breath. The door pings again when he opens it, but he pauses before exiting the shop.
“I messed this up. I hadn’t realized . . .” He trails off. “I have a feeling we’ll meet again, Lydia.” And then he’s gone.
I run around the counter, not stopping until I reach the door. With a quick flick of my wrist I lock it and then flip the Closed sign until it’s facing the street. I back away from the front windows, frantically scanning the sidewalk, but the man has already disappeared.
The backs of my calves hit a flowerpot and I sink down onto the ground, clutching my knees. The Montauk Project hasn’t found me. He was just another crazy conspiracy theorist. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.
Even though I repeat the words over and over, I can’t seem to make myself believe them.
Later that night, I stand over my desk. I may have briefly glanced at Lydia 2’s files—enough to know that she was looking into my grandfather’s disappearance—but I’ve mostly been avoiding this part of her life since I came back to 2012.
Meeting that man today proves that I can’t let myself stay in the dark any longer. It’s too dangerous. I need to know everything Lydia 2 knows if I’m going to be safe.
I pull out my desk chair and sit down. The surface of the desk is covered with books, papers, and Lydia 2’s laptop. There is also a stack of notebooks in the corner—my grandfather’s journals. I hesitate for a second, then force myself to pick one up. The cover is dated April 1989. I open the cheap black notebook to a page in the middle. The paper is soft with age and almost falling out of its binding. The words I find are barely legible, written with pencil, faded and sloppy. Not that they make much sense anyway. As far as I can tell, it’s just a random collection of letters and numbers, strung together: SO4N2H11C9OC9H11N2O4S. The pattern keeps repeating, but I have no idea what it could mean. I put it aside.
The next journal is dated 1985. I read the first entry, written in my grandfather’s broad, slanting script:
Today, I took Jake to look at cars. He’s already 16. Almost a man. Sometimes it seems like yesterday when he was born. I told him about my father on the way over to the dealership. He wasn’t interested, of course, but he’s a teenager, consumed by other things.
Lately, I am finding it harder and harder to think about anything other than my own father’s disappearance. I pore over his journal, rereading every line, wondering what took him from us. I’ve been hearing rumors about what happens out at Camp Hero. They say it’s shut down, but there are strange flashes of light and disappearances that can’t be explained. Disappearances like my father’s. What’s happening out there?
I slam the notebook shut and it shakes in my hands. In the original time line, Grandpa didn’t become obsessed with the Montauk Project until I was a little girl, after his wife died and he found his father’s journal hidden underneath a floorboard. But in this time line he had already found it by the 1980s. Was it Dean’s journal
