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“Burke?”
He met her eyes, then raked his gaze over her body. Touched her arms. “You sure?”
“I’m okay,” she said. She pushed past him to her feet.
The sight on the driveway turned her cold.
Her mother lay on the driveway, her hands pressed to her gut, writhing as blood poured between her fingers.
“Mom!”
Her father was scrambling to his feet where Rembrandt had tackled him into the grass. But Rembrandt beat him to her mother, pulled off his shirt and pushed it into her wound. “Somebody call 911!”
Her father shoved him away. “Hang on, Bets, hang on.”
Rembrandt stood up, his eyes wide, breathing hard.
Then suddenly, he sprinted toward the road.
As Eve listened to Burke shout for help to the 9-1-1 operator, she spotted Rembrandt’s Camaro spitting up gravel as he peeled away from the house.
18
I hate time travel. I want to take Booker’s stupid watch and cram it down his throat, add it to his words that thunder through my brain—you can’t win against time.
Bets’ blood stains my hands as I slam my foot to the floorboard of my Camaro, fishtailing around the corner off Lakeview onto Cottagewood.
These old neighborhoods are a tangle of roads, and my guess is the boys from Hassan’s hood will take the easiest route back to the highway.
Back to the Phillips neighborhood.
Back into hiding.
Not if I get them first.
I saw the car. I remember the brand and make, but getting a good look at it as I took Danny to the ground and held him there has galvanized me.
But not as much as hearing Elizabeth Mulligan scream.
What sort of twisted fate version of the timeline is this? I don’t remember the order of events last time—just that Asher and Danny had driven out to the nearby Cottagewood General store. Maybe Hassan’s men had staked out the house, were following them.
Why they triggered early this time I haven’t a clue, except, well—and the thought is a boulder in my gut as I floor it down Cottagewood—maybe they were after me.
After all, it was me who was chasing Hassan.
I taste bile as I merge onto Minnetonka Boulevard, heading for Vine Hill.
I did this. I changed time, again.
You aren’t here to save people. Changing history…you don’t know what you’re messing with. You don’t know that the tiniest change could destroy lives.
Geez—you think?
I spot the car, heading over the Carson bay bridge as if out for a leisurely Saturday afternoon drive. Maybe they don’t want to raise suspicion by speeding. Just a couple of boys from the hood, hanging out with their AR-15 semi-automatics. It’s an old Buick wood paneled station wagon, just like my first timeline, and as I get closer, I spot the license plate. Memorize it.
Gotchta.
I need backup, but I don’t want to lose them. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I press speed dial to Burke.
