The Edge of Forever (13 page)

Alora stands a few steps away, watching me. I smile at her, and she quickly looks away. That’s definitely different from Vika—she would always stare me down. Even if I caught her looking at me first.

“There, how’s that?” Grace asks once she’s finished fussing over me.

“Good,” I say.

“Does your knee still hurt?”

“No, it’s fine as long as I don’t move it.”

“That’s good.” Grace clasps her hands together. “I bet you’re thirsty. Do you like sweet tea?” I have no idea—I’ve never tried it. Before I can reply, she says, “I’ll get some for all of us. It’ll just take a few minutes.”

Grace sweeps out of the room, leaving me alone with Alora. Alora’s mouth parts slightly as she glances at the doorway. It’s like she would rather do anything than stay in here with me.

Then she looks down at my portacase clutched in her hands. “I guess you need this,” she says, setting it next to me.

“Yes. Thanks for bringing it in.”

“No problem.” She retreats to the other side of small table in front of the couch and sits in a green chair. “So, what’s your name?”

“Bridger.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Alora Walker and the crazy lady is Grace Evans, my aunt.”

I nod like I don’t already know this. I shouldn’t say anything, but I don’t want to act like an ungrateful jerk. Alora and Grace are trying to be friendly. I should show them the same courtesy, even though I really shouldn’t even be talking to them. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

We’re both silent for a moment, checking each other out. Then Alora asks, “Where are you from?”

I close my eyes. I should have known she would ask something like that. And I have to give her an answer. I guess it’s better to stick close to the truth. “Denver.”

Alora leans forward. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“Go where?” Grace asks as she breezes back in the room. She’s carrying a silver tray with three tall glasses of tea. She places the tray on the table and hands a glass to Alora and me before sitting in a chair by Alora.

“Denver,” Alora says, turning to Grace. “That’s where Bridger is from.”

“Oh, how lovely.” Grace takes a sip of her tea and grins. “And what brings you to Willow Creek, Bridger?”

I twist the cold glass in my hand and stare at it. Why do women always want to know every little detail about everything? It doesn’t matter what time you’re in, they’re all the same. I glance up and find Alora and Grace both waiting for my answer. “Um, I’m here . . .” What can I say? Then the answer pops in my mind. “I’m here because I’m looking for my father. He’s missing.”

“Oh my goodness, what happened?” Grace asks.

“He disappeared a few months ago.”

“Why do you think he’s here?” Alora asks.

Damn. It’s like I’m having an inquiry hearing. “I found a message someone sent to him. It indicated that he might be here, so I thought I’d see for myself.”

Grace makes a
tsk
-ing sound and sets her tea on the table. “That’s awful. I really hope you find him soon.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“So I take it you’re here because you want to rent a room?” Grace asks.

I almost blurt out no. But it would seem weird for me to show up at a bed-and-breakfast and not want to rent a room. But I can’t stay. I clear my throat and say, “Well, I was going to see if you had anything available, but—”

“But nothing. You’re staying.”

I knew from the start that shifting to the correct date would be difficult. I brought a few changes of clothing, some Calmer, and the cash Dad left. That was supposed to be for things I might need since I’d planned to camp in the woods if I had to wait a few days. Staying at the inn was never part of the plan. Interacting with ghosts was never part of the plan. But bumming my knee was never part of the plan either. It’ll heal quickly if there is no major damage, but spending the night in the forest might be too difficult.

“Maybe for one night,” I find myself saying even though I know I shouldn’t. I reach for my portacase. “How much will it cost?”

Grace waves a hand at me. “Not a dime. I almost killed you, remember? It’s the least I can do.”

Alora lets out a strangled sound. I guess she doesn’t like the idea any more than I do. But at least I’ll get to keep a closer eye on her tonight. Maybe I’ll get an idea of what’s so special about her and figure out who’s supposed to kill her.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” Grace asks.

“Yes, ma’am. I choked, that’s all.” She fidgets with the glass before setting it on the table.

Grace checks her watch. “Oh crap, the post office is gonna close soon.” She stands and looks at me. “That’s where I was fixing to go when I almost ran over you. Alora, keep him company, will you? I’ll be back in a flash.”

After Grace is gone, Alora pulls out her phone again. She chews on her lower lip as she taps something on the screen. I find myself staring at her mouth.

What the hell, Bridger. Stop that, she’s a ghost!

Alora slides the phone back in her pocket with a groan and stands.

“Anything wrong?” I ask. I know it’s none of my business, but she doesn’t look happy. Her face is scrunched up like she’s either pissed or upset or both.

“It’s nothing. My friend is mad because I left her and . . .” She shakes her head. “You don’t want to hear my drama. You’ve got enough to deal with.”

“No, I don’t mind. It’s not like I can go anywhere right now.” I incline my head toward my hurt knee.

“True,” she replies. “But I’ve got homework I need to do.” She glances toward the doorway. “Just holler if you need anything.”

I want to tell Alora to stay. But that might wild her out, coming from a stranger. “Okay. And thank you.” She starts toward the door, but another thought occurs to me. “Hey, what’s the date? I can’t remember exactly.”

“April tenth.”

It’s like time stops. I blink a few times. Did I hear her right?
April tenth
? No, that can’t be right. It can’t. I can’t be three months before her death date.

My stomach tightens, but I force a smile and thank her again. Then I flop my head back against the pillow as soon as she leaves. This is the worst. I could try to shift right now, but that would be idiotic with a hurt knee. I have to wait a little longer. Then I run the risk of not hitting the right date again. Or worse, I could revert back to my home time and have to face the Space Benders that the DTA will undoubtedly have stationed at this location. If I had a Chronoband, I wouldn’t have to worry about that.

I don’t have a choice. I have to stay here, at least one night. I just hope I don’t contaminate the timeline.

No matter what I do, I’m screwed.

15

ALORA

APRIL 10, 2013

A
s I climb the stairs, I glance back at the doorway to the front parlor. A small part of me wants to stay with Bridger like Aunt Grace asked. What if he needs something and I don’t hear him calling? That would be bad, especially since Aunt Grace did almost run over him. Then there’s the fact that he’s really cute. I could stare at his dimples for hours.

I shake my head. Jeez, what am I thinking? The last thing I need to do is go mooning over a new guy. I mean, he doesn’t even live here. He might stay a few days, and then he’ll be gone. Besides, you can’t trust good-looking guys. Look where that got me with Trevor. I can’t believe I fell for his line about wanting to help me study. I might as well have the word
idiot
stamped on my forehead.

I stop in front of Aunt Grace’s door, my fingers hovering over the handle. This is it. She’ll be gone for twenty minutes or so—plenty of time to search the bottom drawer. But the moment I’m inside, my heart begins to thud furiously. “Get a grip,” I mutter.

My legs can’t carry me fast enough to the dresser. The drawer creaks as I open it. And for the second time today, I get that punched-in-the-gut feeling.

It’s empty.

I should’ve known Aunt Grace would move everything. She doesn’t trust me. Well, I’ve got news for her. I’m not about to quit. This proves she has information that could help me. I close my eyes. Where would she have moved the stuff? If she took the time to get those old letters and pictures out of here, she definitely wouldn’t put them somewhere else in her room. And the guest rooms are definitely out.

Which leaves the attic.

I open my eyes and groan. Just freaking great. Aunt Grace always keeps the door to the attic locked. She says nobody at the inn has any business up there, including me. And the key to unlock the door is on her keychain.

I need something to pick the lock. Something like one of Aunt Grace’s bobby pins. I cross to the mirrored dresser that doubles as Aunt Grace’s vanity. There’s a small wicker basket full of colorful ponytail holders next to her hair brush. I rummage through it, hoping a bobby pin is on the bottom, and nearly shout
yes
when my fingers close around one.

I fly out of Aunt Grace’s room and down the hallway, stopping three doors to the left, and insert the bobby pin in the handle. I move the pin around gently, but the lock won’t open. I grind my teeth together and try again and again. Nothing happens.

Finally after what seems like an eternity, I hear a tiny click and breathe a sigh of relief. The door creaks as I open it. I glance around to make sure I’m still alone before stepping across the threshold, stopping only to shut the door.

The air becomes stale as I climb the stairs. I shrink from the cobwebs hanging overhead and shudder, imagining the feeling of a spider crawling on me.

Sunlight spills in through the windows. It doesn’t light up the whole space—just enough to make the shadows seem darker. More cobwebs fill every nook and crevice. I shiver again as I slowly walk around, searching for anything that could possibly hold Aunt Grace’s secrets. The attic is full of old furniture, trunks, and other odds and ends, all coated with a thick layer of dust.

One of the trunks catches my eye. It doesn’t look ancient like the rest of the stuff up here, and unlike everything else I’ve seen so far, fingerprints mar the surface. A weird, fluttery sensation fills me as I lift the lid. Please let this be it. Please.

The inside looks like a treasure chest for a young boy. On top are a few old baseball gloves, two scuffed-up bats, some torn comic books, and some faded shirts. I pick up a blue and white shirt. It’s an old jersey with the name
Eagles
written across the front and the number three on the back, below the name Walker. It must have been my dad’s. I hold it close and sniff, hoping for a hint of what he smelled like, what
he
was like. Disappointment washes over me—it’s musty, like the rest of the attic.

A paper shopping bag is on one side of the pile. The paper crinkles as I open it. I grin when I realize it’s filled with the missing pictures and letters. Nice try, Aunt Grace.

I take the bag out and start to search through it, but then I notice a large leather book in the trunk with Dad’s name, Nathaniel, embossed on the front in gold letters. The spine makes a crackling noise as I open it. The yellowed pages are full of newspaper clippings, pictures, and other mementoes from my dad’s past. I smile when I come across some awards from when he was in high school. He had the highest average in history for several years. I definitely didn’t inherit that from him.

More newspaper clippings are near the back. Dad’s baseball team came in third at the state championship during his junior year of high school, and his cross country team won several awards. The last picture on the page shows him standing next to another guy. They’re both holding trophies. I lean closer to study the other guy’s face and check out his name from the caption: John Miller. He looks familiar. Where have I seen him? Then it hits me—he’s the same guy standing next to Dad in the picture I stole from Aunt Grace’s bedroom.

I nearly drop the scrapbook when the attic door creaks open and footsteps pound up the stairs, followed by Aunt Grace calling, “Alora Walker, you better not be up here.”

No! She can’t be back already. My body goes on autopilot. Pocket the picture of Dad and John Miller. Put everything back in the trunk. Then my head snaps back and forth, searching for someplace to hide. There’s an old chair across the room. I barely squeeze in the narrow space behind the chair before Aunt Grace tops the stairs.

I hold my breath and peer around the side. Aunt Grace stops in front of the trunk. I hope she can’t tell I was snooping through it. She opens it and examines the contents. Seconds stretch to minutes. My chest feels like it’s about to explode. When I think I can’t take much more, she shuts the lid. I stay still until I hear the attic door shutting again. Then I let out a sigh.

That was too close.

I’ll have to come up with a lie about where I’ve been. Aunt Grace will have already checked my bedroom, but I’ll deal with that when I’m out of here. I hurry to the trunk and remove the scrapbook again. I want to keep it in my room.

A faint light slivers through the cracks around the door at the bottom of the stairs. All I want to do is slip out unnoticed, get to my room, and examine the scrapbook some more. Hopefully Aunt Grace will be occupied with Bridger for a while and won’t look for me anymore.

I twist the doorknob, expecting it to turn, but it won’t budge.

“No way,” I mutter as I twist it again.

It still won’t open.

I sink onto the step and rub my hand across my forehead. If I bang on the door and yell, Aunt Grace will know that I was hiding from her and snooping. That’s out of the question if I ever want to search through Dad’s trunk again.

I allow myself a minute of self-pity before I trudge back up the stairs. I’m not getting out of here by sitting on my behind. I head to the nearest window, which overlooks the front of the inn. The long gravel driveway stretches toward the road, and a few trees are spaced out across the wide lawn. I trail my fingers over the glass. As much as I hate it, this is my only way out.

I hurry to the other end of the attic and peer out the window overlooking the right side of the inn. A magnolia is growing maybe twelve feet away. It’s not very old—the top of the tree barely peeks over the roof. But I could jump over to it and climb down.