Departure(39)

It’s an easy choice.





Whoa. Didn’t see that coming. The bio must be on the bookshelf outside, one of the ones I skimmed past, looking for Alice Carter. I’ll check after I finish with the journal.

After 2019, the journal entries change. The inner dialogue stops. There are no more thoughts or feelings. It’s a bloody almanac now, a history of stats—mostly sales numbers—years, and the biographies I penned. No wonder the journal was never filled.

Then, suddenly, twenty years later, the terse, just-the-facts entries give way to something else.


23 Dec. 2039


Alone. Another year. And so is he. Nothing to do but write, my only friend. We’ve confessed our feelings to each other. He has a plan. He’s so brave. It would change everything. For the first time since my mum lay on her deathbed, I’ve been praying. I want it so much. It’s the only way. Without it, he’s unreachable. No, I am. Forbidden.

The Titans—our last enemy. It’s ironic. The controversial cabal I sold to the world is now the only barrier to my immortal happiness.





And that’s it. No more entries. You’ve got to be kidding me. Maybe there’s another journal. I’m about to ransack the flat when the bedroom door swings open and Nick leans in. “Hey—” He narrows his eyes, taking in the sight of me lying in bed with the journals, the sadness on my face. “Everything all right?”

Oh, sure, nothing amiss, just found out I abandoned my dream and passed away a spinster who wasted her final years pining for an unavailable man.

“Just resting,” I lie, trying too hard to sound casual.

Nick sees right through it. He already seems to know me so well. Or is reading people part of his job, whatever that is?

He comes in and sits down beside me, letting the door close behind him. My heart rate climbs. Butterflies multiply and rise like flames from a newly kindled fire. God, I’ve turned into a twelve-year-old. I should be in a mental institution.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

I hold the notebook up. “Been reviewing some of my life choices.”

“And?”

“Looked good initially, but things . . . didn’t exactly work out.”

“For her.”

“Her past is my future.”

“It doesn’t have to be. I think we’ve made a breakthrough. There’s a museum that may tell us what happened here. And Yul and Sabrina have agreed to talk there.”

“Museum?”

“It’s called Titan Hall.”





The march to Titan Hall feels endless. In reality, it’s only four blocks from my flat.

Sabrina and Yul lead the way, with Grayson alone in the middle, and Nick and me bringing up the rear.

We’re silent for our own safety, but I have the sense that everyone is deep in thought, contemplating this strange, deserted London of the future—waiting for answers, for the final shoe to drop.

Titan Hall occupies an entire city block, most of it green space. What must have once been a splendid park is now overgrown; it feels like a nexus for nature’s reclamation of London, the point of origin for weeds, vines, and trees that are slowly burying the last evidence of man’s existence.

In the middle of the park sits a simple stone and timber building, barely visible through the lush overgrowth in the dim moonlight. The hall’s modest size and simplicity, in sharp contrast to the crowded, overbuilt London around it, actually makes it far more striking. The effect likely didn’t come cheap. I know this block; it used to be occupied by office buildings and large homes, any one of which would have cost a fortune.

We trek through the overgrown park, climbing over fallen trees and scrambling through tangled vegetation. At the hall, Nick pushes the wooden double doors open, revealing a small reception area with a raised desk. We wander past it into a wide room with twelve doors. It reminds me of the loading zone for an amusement park ride. This must be where visitors queued up.

To my surprise, lighted green arrows flash on the floor, pointing us to the first door.

“Must be solar-powered, like Stonehenge,” says Nick.

Right, like Stonehenge. I’d love to hear that story at some point.

The five of us follow the arrows into a room that’s far bigger than I expected, its floor dark stone. It’s empty, as far as I can see, but from the room’s shadowy perimeter we hear footsteps, faint at first, then louder, heels clapping on the stone floor.

Nick and Grayson draw their guns and form up in front of Sabrina, Yul, and me, positioning themselves to greet whoever’s approaching. We’ve become a paranoid bunch, for good reason.

The figure that emerges from the darkness seems unconcerned by the guns. She’s dressed in timeless formality: a simple black dress, a single strand of pearls. Her hair’s shoulder-length, about the same as mine, and silvery gray. Her face is lean, lightly lined; I would guess she’s in her sixties.

She stares at the five of us, unflinching. “Hello. I’m Harper Lane.”





23





Beside me stands the thirty-year-old Harper, looking aghast at a version of herself that’s perhaps double her age, though it’s hard to tell—she’s aged quite well, I think. Future Harper has no reaction to us, which, given the two guns drawn and pointed at her, is the first sign that something is very wrong.