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  I run a hand through my messy hair. “Probably not. But the third mission is the Cuban Missile Crisis.”

  “Okay? Why are you saying it like that—like you know something I don’t?”

  “Because.” I pause. “That night at your grandparents’ house? Ariel told me about the very first mission he went on. Annum Guard’s very first mission ever. It was the Cuban Missile Crisis. It wasn’t just a crisis. We dropped a bomb. Moscow retaliated. Fifteen million people died. But Ariel—he stopped it. He saved all of us.”

  “What?” Abe’s voice is barely a whisper.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

  Abe shakes his head. “This doesn’t make any sense. How is the third mission the Cuban Missile Crisis? If what you told me is true, then my grandfather was—in on it? No. Someone messed with it later? I don’t understand.” I can see him thinking, puzzling through the same things I am. Which is to say he has a jumble of thoughts running together in his head like a herd of sheep fleeing a dog. He shakes his head, like this will make all of the thoughts fly out of his brain.

  “So, Boston then?” I say.

  He nods silently.

  There’s a train heading back into the city, but neither Abe nor I have the correct money.

  “We either steal, which is risky as well as illegal, or we project to 1962, which is where we have to go anyway,” I say. “I’ve got plenty of money for 1962.”

  “Sounds like you’ve made up your mind there already, cowboy.”

  “Please don’t ever call me cowboy again.”

  Abe laughs. It’s warm, a beam of light that shines on me, on him, on us. We’re okay. Just like I knew we would be. I interlace my fingers with his, and he squeezes my hand. “What’s the date we’re going to?”

  “Hang on.” I dig the printout from the bag and unfold it, then I let go of Abe’s hand to flip to the second page. There’s really not much to go on, just the date and location of the mission. “August 25, 1962. We’re going to be in the Back Bay.”

  “What time of day?”

  “Um”—I look again—“just after ten thirty p.m.”

  “So let’s go back in the morning. That will give us plenty of time to get to Boston.”

  We duck inside the station bathrooms to project. I lock myself into the farthest stall and hold my breath. I pray for two things. One, that this is still a bathroom in 1962, and two, that I’m not about to project on top of some woman doing her business thirty-four years from now.

  I slam my watch face shut and fly up. My limbs stretch and pop and burn, and I want to scream. A few seconds later, I land in the same spot and finally let out my breath and gasp for air.

  I’m in a bathroom. An unoccupied bathroom. A lucky break. Of course, it is six in the morning. I take a second to contemplate changing into that hideous polyester jumpsuit from the seventies that’s in my bag but decide against it. It’s ten years from being in style. We’ll deal with clothing in Boston.

  The platform is outside, and there’s a slight morning chill in the air, but I find it familiar and reassuring. Abe and I park ourselves on a bench. It’s Saturday, so the train isn’t running that often.

  I scoot close to Abe so that our legs are touching. He doesn’t tense or move away. “I have to warn you that I have no idea what we’re in for. According to what I found online, there was no murder on August 25. At least not one attributed to the Strangler.”

  “So either XP murdered someone and hoped it would be pinned on the Strangler, or he . . . saved one of the victims?”

  I shrug. “Those seem to be the only two options. I guess we’ll find out.”

  There’s a high-pitched wail of metal against metal as the commuter train locks its brakes and slides into the station. I stuff the printout back into the bag, then Abe and I climb aboard and find seats next to each other. It’s not that hard. This early, there’s only one other person on the train. An old woman so short her legs don’t touch the floor. She has a blue kerchief tied around her head and two large shopping bags piled haphazardly on the seat next to her. She eyes my dress as Abe and I walk past her.

  It’s a short ride into Boston. They’ve made some improvements on train speed since 1865. The train drops us at the Back Bay station, which in true Boston fashion technically is in the South End, not the Back Bay. We need to get out of these clothes—people stare at us left and right—but it’s still too early for any shops to be open. So we head for 426 Marlborough Street to scope it out. It’s at the very far end of the Back Bay, just a hop, skip, and jump on the green line from the Mass. Ave. T stop. We stare at the three-story brownstone with shiny, black French doors. The building looks like the hundreds of others that line the streets of the Back Bay. We’re at the less expensive end of a very expensive neighborhood. The street seems just a little dirtier down here, the brownstones not quite as stately. Even so, there’s no way I could afford to live here. Like, ever. Not on my government salary. Well, former government salary.

  We have a lot of time to waste and not much preparation to do for tonight’s mission—I mean, how can we prepare for something when we have no idea what to expect?—so Abe and I wander the city.

  As soon as the stores open, we head into Jordan Marsh, the same downtown department store where Yellow and I bought clothes during our last foray into this decade. Walking through the double glass doors into the cosmetics section—waving off a slender redhead armed with a spray perfume bottle—gives me a wicked sense of déjà vu.

  The sixties are becoming familiar to me. I’ve spent a lot of time here now. But it’s not a good familiarity. It’s one that sets me on edge. Like a visit to a relative you don’t really like. A trip you have to endure. This time period brings back memories of death and deceit, lies and corruption.

  I pick out a knee-length, kelly-green, A-line dress with thin white stripes across the bodice. It costs nine dollars, which makes me laugh. Nine bucks will buy me a pair of socks and some hair ties in present-day Boston. I drop the duffel bag below the counter, out of the sales clerk’s view, and dig through the stacks of twenties. I definitely took too much money.

  I change in a dressing room and then find Abe, who’s now in a blue striped shirt and light-brown pants that are way tighter than any he owns in the present. We venture outside and stroll around, mostly in a comfortable silence. We pass a woman dressed in black pants that end at her ankles, a cropped silver jacket, and oversize sunglasses. She has dark, wavy hair, just like my mom, and she has an artist’s portfolio tucked under her arm. She slips into a gallery on Newbury Street.

  She’s like the artist mother I always dreamed of. The one with an organized studio and a stable life. Not the manipulative, irrational mess I wound up with.

  I’m done.

  I don’t think I realized it until right this second, but I’m done. No more voice mails, no more begging. If my mom isn’t going to change, when we both know she can, I have to walk away, for me.

  You have to come first sometimes.

  “What about this one?” Abe says.

  “Huh?”

  He points at a brownstone on the corner of Comm. Ave. and Clarendon Street. “We could live here someday. Top floor, maybe? Something with two bedrooms? Enough room for you and me and baby you-and-me?”

  I snort. It’s nice to hear Abe talk about the future, but this is the first time he’s ever mentioned kids. “Yeah, I’m not having kids.”

  Abe blinks. “I wasn’t talking about right now.”

  “I know. And I’m talking about ever.”

  “You don’t want children . . . ever?”

  “Nope,” I say. I’ve never felt very motherly. When other little girls my age were tucking dolls into play cribs or feeding them with those weird bottles that drain into nothingness when you tip them over, I was busy on the monkey bars. I don’t know if it’s a nature or nurture thing. Both, I guess?

  I refuse to let myself think of my mom anymore. I don’t have time for that distraction. If s
he’s not going to get the help she needs, I have to say good-bye. I’ve been stuck on a constant, looping roller coaster, and it’s time to get off, to plant my feet on solid ground.

  Focus. It’s time to focus. I look at Abe, and there’s an expression on his face I’ve never seen. It’s not quite his mad face, not quite his disappointed face. “I’m just being honest,” I say. “Besides, I can’t see wanting to bring a child into this completely messed up world. And I don’t exactly have the tools to teach that kid how to thrive. I’d mess up a kid worse than the world would.”

  Abe doesn’t say anything for a while, and I start panicking a little. What if this is a deal breaker for him?

  “There’s still plenty of time for you to change your mind,” he finally says, and I choose to let the conversation drop. It would take a lot for me ever to change my mind, but this isn’t the time or the place for that debate. We have a job to do. We need to get into professional mode.

  It’s August in New England, so night doesn’t begin to fall until around nine. That’s one thing I’ve always loved about living here. The endless summer. Of course, the trade-off is that you’re freezing in the winter, and it’s dark by 3:45.

  We hang around the city all afternoon, grabbing lunch and a quick nap under a tree in the Public Garden. Around nine, we make our way back to Marlborough and wait across the street, on the stoop of number 427. Just after 9:30, a young couple comes out the front door, and Abe hops up to grab the door behind them. They don’t say anything as we slip inside, no question whom we’re visiting in the building. I love when things are easy.

  The door is made from heavy wood and painted black, but there are two windowed side panels. Abe and I each take one and squat down. We have a perfect view across the street, at number 426. And really, that’s all we’re here to do. Observe.

  Well, observe and hide from Tyler, who’s bound to show up any second now.

  But he doesn’t appear. There are a few people walking down the street, but not many, and definitely not Tyler.

  “Where is he?” I whisper, even though we’re inside and no one on the street can hear us.

  “No idea,” Abe whispers back. “I thought for sure he’d try to find us before the mission goes down.”

  “Maybe he isn’t coming.” But there’s a blip of fear bubbling in the back of my throat that I can’t ignore. At just after 10:30, the street is deserted. We are on the least populated section of Marlborough, which also happens to be the least trafficked street in the Back Bay. Most people stick to Boylston or Newbury, or even Comm. Ave. It’s much more convenient to take any of those, especially when you hop off the T. You have to want to be on this stretch of Marlborough. I can see how some women living alone would find safety in that.

  Me, I see it as being a sitting duck.

  And sure enough, a few minutes later a lone man staggers down the street. He has dark hair, his jacket is zipped tight, and his hands are in his pockets. His chin is tucked into his chest. It’s impossible to get a good look at him from this angle.

  All of a sudden, the blip of fear rises into terror. A serial killer. Across the street from me. I look over at Abe. He’s still crouched down, and he has his hands in front of him, as if he’s waiting for the gun to start a hundred-yard dash.

  I know what he’s thinking. That we could take this guy out and stop the killer. Or one of them, at least.

  “Abe.”

  He turns his head to me but keeps his eyes trained on the guy across the street, who’s jogging up the steps of 426.

  I shake my head at Abe, but I don’t think he sees me. I turn back. There’s a light illuminating the call box on the side of the building, and I see the man press the button that’s second from the top.

  Shouldn’t one of the second-generation Guardians be here? Isn’t one of them supposed to intervene soon? XP bought this mission from one of them. And then the thought hits me: What if this confrontation goes down inside the building?

  Abe and I will miss it. I look over at him again, and I can tell he’s just had the exact same thought.

  The door across the street opens, and Abe and I stand in unison. We have to get inside somehow!

  But just then, Beta—Green’s dad—steps from a shadow in 426’s vestibule, and Abe and I both freeze. Words are exchanged, then there’s a flash of metal as Beta whips out a pocketknife. The killer raises his hands, then bolts down the steps and away from us. Beta flicks the knife closed and heads in the opposite direction, out of sight.

  I remember to breathe. My fear is gone, and I feel sort of silly for having been afraid in the first place. That was like the least dangerous situation I’ve ever been in. Holy letdown.

  “What was that?” I ask Abe. “That was the biggest waste of time ever.”

  Abe nods but keeps looking out the window. “Come on, I don’t see anyone.”

  The two of us jog across the street to 426. Abe peers through the window in the front door while I keep a lookout. I hear the snap of a twig and I jump, but I don’t see anyone. There’s a rustling of tree branches but no other movement. Still, I can’t help but feel that something is off.

  “Abey, we need to move.”

  He’s still looking in the window, and I turn to the call box. And then I stop breathing. Because there are names on the call box. Names handwritten by the tenants. There’s one next to the second button from the top.

  D. Callaway.

  We’re wrong. It’s not Secretary Howe. It’s not Mike Baxter.

  Colton Callaway Caldwell. A family name, he said. His grandmother. Yellow was right. XP isn’t Cairo as in Egypt. It’s Chi Rho as in Jesus Christ. Initials. JC.

  Joe Caldwell.

  The vice president’s husband.

  And maybe even the vice president herself.

  “Abe!” I yell. “We have to get out of here. Now!”

  CHAPTER 25

  I grab Abe’s hand and yank him off the stoop. “It’s Caldwell! XP is Caldwell.”

  “Colton? But he’s not nearly old enough to—”

  “No, not Colton—Joe! Which means maybe the vice president knows, which means we need to get the hell out of 1962 now.”

  But then two people are standing there on the sidewalk, and I have no idea how they got there. Abe and I skid to a halt. He squeezes my hand.

  Tyler is to our left. There’s another guy on the right, dressed head to toe in black. Black combat boots, black cargo pants, long-sleeved black shirt, black vest. And a black ski mask so I can’t see his face.

  “Joe?” I say, taking a gamble. I’m showing my hand, but I have nothing to lose at this point.

  Tyler laughs. “Come on, you don’t really think he’s here, do you? But good to see you again, Iris. And so soon!”

  “So you’re not going to deny that XP is Joe Caldwell?” I say.

  “What I am going to do,” he says as he takes that silver rod from his pocket and flicks it open, “is note how absolutely adorable it is that you two are holding hands. Like children afraid of the dark.” He takes a step closer to us. “And trust me, you should be very, very afraid of our dark.”

  Before I know what’s happening, Abe’s flying through the air. He spins and lands a kick right across Tyler’s jaw. Tyler staggers back and goes sprawling onto the sidewalk.

  The other guy rushes me. I raise the bag and swing it into his nose. He stumbles backward, and I don’t hesitate. I elbow him, then grab on to him and knee him in the groin. He screams as he sinks to the ground.

  I reach into my dress and pull out my watch, then open the face and spin the dials backward. I don’t know where I’m going, and it doesn’t matter. I just need to grab Abe and project the both of us out of here.

  But then the guy has me. He yanks my hand from the watch. “Don’t even try.” I know that condescending drawl. I reach up and yank off the ski mask, and I’m not surprised to find Colton staring at me with that cocky grin.

  All right, prep-school Ivy League, let’s see how you do aga
inst government training. I lunge forward and throw a punch, but Colton deflects it. He grabs my arm and twists it behind my back. I try to spin away again, but he holds me. He does have training.

  I look over at Abe, and panic strikes. Tyler has him in a full nelson, Abe’s hands wrapped behind his head. Tyler’s got that long metal wand. He hits the top button.

  “Abe!” I yell. “No! No!” I squirm, but Colton squeezes my arm and tears prick my eyes. I think he’s going to break my wrist.

  The silver wand starts to whir—a soft humming at first but then it builds and builds into a shriek, and I match it pitch for pitch.

  “Abe!” I keep squirming. I don’t care about my wrist anymore.

  And then the wand erupts into an arc of light. It showers all of Marlborough in a white glow.

  I squint. I can hear Abe shouting over the noise. “I love you, Amanda!” And then there’s a scream and a click, and then darkness. Colton lets go of my arm, and I spring away. To where Abe and Tyler should be standing. But they no longer are.

  “Where is he? What did you do to him?” I yell at Colton.

  Colton shrugs. “Guess you’re about to find out.” He pulls out another metal wand and slams his palm into the top. It starts glowing and humming. Colton lunges for me, but this time I’m quicker. I sidestep him, sweep his leg out, and knock him to the ground. I kick the metal pole into the gutter.

  “Tell me where he is!”

  Colton just laughs. I grab my watch again, grab onto Colton’s bicep, and slam the face shut.

  Both of us are ripped through time. Pain shoots down my arms, threatening to tear my body in two. And then it goes to my legs, to my toes. I’m projecting for both of us, taking the pain for Colton. I try to push the pain out. I’m going to need my strength when we land.

  And then we stop. I gasp for air, but instead water rushes into my lungs. I choke and swallow and gag and let go of Colton. I go into survival mode. I kick and find the surface. I spit out water and choke again. I flail and choke and flail and choke, and finally it all comes up. I vomit up a cheeseburger I bought for a dime in 1962 and barely even notice.