The door makes almost no sound as it opens and shuts.
I move toward the door, then back to the bed, thinking of everything the future me just said. I want to walk, to run from this room, but something makes me hesitate.
I have been living with the unknown for months—worrying about my grandfather and wondering what my future might hold. There is a strange comfort in seeing how your life plays out, even if it’s not what you dreamed of.
In my mind, the Montauk Project represents evil. Logically, I know it is more complicated than that. But they stole my life from me. By choosing this future, I could prevent them from doing that to someone else.
But the cost will be Wes, and any hope I have left of breaking free from the Project.
This future me said that my grandfather will be safe. Everything I’ve done has been for him. But how far am I willing to go? There must be some way to ensure that we can both have the future we want.
How can I make this decision? How can I not?
I turn and take a step toward the door. And then another one. And another. Before I know what is happening, I am in the hallway, the mirrors glittering all around me, light and my own image reflected over and over.
The future me may have accepted the Project’s destiny, but I can’t bring myself to do the same. I do not want to live a life that’s already laid out in front of me. If I go to the address on Eleventh Avenue, then I know I will have tried everything. I will not have accepted a preordained path where Wes is meant to die, where Tim will never have another chance, where I am meant to be in charge of the Montauk Project.
And now I know the ad wasn’t planted by the Project, which means someone else is trying to contact me. I have no idea who it could be, but maybe they can help me save Wes.
I do not pass anyone as I move through the hallways, go down the elevator, and walk out into the lobby. The blond-haired girl looks up at me with her vacant expression, but she doesn’t say a word, and I silently thank the older Lydia for giving me clearance. As soon as I’m out of the building, I start walking south, counting as the street numbers slowly descend.
It takes me over an hour to walk the sixty blocks to 167 Eleventh Avenue. Every once in a while I think I feel someone watching me, but I keep my face turned down. It helps that I’m wearing all black, that I’m no longer caked in dirt and blood.
The address brings me to the edge of the city where the Westside Highway runs parallel with the Hudson. The new wall is in between them, blocking the river and the view of New Jersey. In my time, the strip of land by the waterfront held buildings, harbors with boats docked in the Hudson, and sometimes a park or a bike path. Now it is all gone, the thick wall almost reaching the edge of the highway.
In Times Square I was in a cave of buildings, unable to see the water’s edge. In the Center, we were high enough that the city below appeared spread out and open. But now, with the wall towering over me, the concrete already faded and rough, I feel like a rat in a maze, bumping against the sides as I try to find my way out.
I stare at the descending numbers on the buildings and realize that 167 would be across the street, between the highway and the wall. But there are no buildings now, only a thin length of sidewalk.
How can it not exist? Is this a dead end, or even more of a clue that someone was trying to reach me?
I cross the highway when the cars on the grid glide to a smooth stop and stare at where the address should be. All that’s left is the remnant of a small park that was cut in half by the seawall. Now there is only a tiny patch of green with a rusted bench. An older black man is sitting on it reading a book.
When I get closer, he lifts his head. He looks right at me and I quickly turn, hoping he didn’t have time to scan me. But I hear his book shut as he sets it aside, hear him get to his feet. I start to walk in the opposite direction, wondering if I should run, or if that will give me away too quickly. He clears his throat loudly. “Nikki says hi.”
I stop moving. How does he know that name?
“So does LJ. He wanted to come, but we thought it would be best if it was just me.”
The cars on the highway rush past. They are right next to us, but the sound cannot drown out my heartbeat, ringing in my ears. I slowly turn. He grins and I recognize him then, his wide smile, his broad, blunt features. “Tag?” I whisper.
The last time I saw him—only nine months ago—he was a skinny eighteen-year-old orphan who loved to paint. But this person is a man, his chest is filled out, his hair mostly gray.
“How did you find me?”
“It wasn’t easy. You’re a hard girl to track down.” He turns his head, taking in the busy streets. “It’s not safe here. Will you come with me?”
I do not hesitate. “Yes.”
Chapter 15
I sit up on the narrow bed. Above me is a single naked bulb hanging on a swinging cord. Tag brought me into this room before he took off the blindfold that he asked me to wear. “It’s not because we don’t trust you,” he said as he tied it
