While You Were Gone (29 page)

The night sky stretches like an ocean above. I imagine silent waves carrying me from deep blue to darkest black. With my eyes closed I can almost feel the earth spinning. Everything is adrift. Unmoored. Floating free. In the distance a siren wails. My fingers press through grass blades, searching for solid dirt below.

Warren got my final message. Even though I was sure we hadn't placed the last chip, I told him to pull the switch, to execute the program. I figured any damage would be better than none. What I didn't know was that in that moment, just before we were surrounded, Danny had made the last swap. As we stood with our hands in the air, the virus was worming its way through the system, generating some kind of surge that melted everything in its path. Spectrum. Skylar. It took down the whole power grid for a time.

And it was that surge, that electromagnetic wave, that opened the portal between our worlds one final time.

Or at least that's how we think it happened.

Laughter carries across the lawn. I look over and see the silhouettes of two students walking toward McConnell. I'm surprised more people aren't out. There are no cameras now. No yellow circles or red
X
s. The gates are still locked—for our safety, wink, wink—but gates aren't a big deal when you know people who know people.

The Art Guild rejected my entry. They called it offensive, vulgar and inflammatory. Bosca won't even look at me. There's something satisfying, though, in knowing the paintings I finished for Vivian ranked best in show. Not that it helps her much. She's been absent since her dad was arrested—an event that prompted a complete turnover in Dad's staff. He couldn't beat Dad in an election, so he conspired with Richard to take him down from the inside. They were the ones who planned the Patriot Day attack, hoping to trip Dad up, cause him to make mistakes, get people to distrust and doubt him. It all might have worked, too, if it weren't for Danny and his trouble with electromagnetic waves. He turned up in our world right when we needed him. Random? Somehow I have my doubts.

A breeze sighs through the trees and I watch the branches sway above me. It's a beautiful night in an uncertain world. So many things remain unresolved. Did Dad know Red December was a government front? Yes. Have I forgiven him for that? Not yet. But we have an uneasy truce for now: I promised to give him the space he needs to make things right in exchange for him clearing the records of four kids who got up to no good.

Footsteps whisper across the grass, growing louder as they approach. Then Danny leans over me, backlit and blocking out the stars.

The what-ifs still crowd around the edges of my mind. But when they grow too loud, I look into his face and a feeling of peace washes over me.

I'm not alone in this world.

And neither is he.

All of the things they say about writing the second book are true and confirm my suspicion that we writers are a crazy lot. This is why I'm so grateful to be surrounded by amazing people who put up with, and even appreciate, my madness.

Thank you to Katherine Harrison for your wisdom, your patience, and your faith in me throughout this project. This book is as much yours as it is mine. Thank you to Christian Fuenfhausen and Angela Carlino for creating a beautiful cover and design. Thank you to Nancy Hinkel, Jillian Vandall, and the Knopf team for putting this story into the hands of readers.

Thank you to my agent, Josh Adams, for your support and encouragement, as well as the helpful reminders to breathe.

Thank you to James Sallis for taking me under your wing and teaching me how to fly.

Thank you to the Parking Lot Confessional: Amy McLane, Stephen Green, and Ryan Dalton. No one gets me like you do, grok?

Thank you to the Thursday-night crew, including Patricia Grady Cox, Marty Murphy, Nanor Tabrizi, Michael Greenwald, Jonathan Bond, Jonathan Levy, Paul Giblin, Hirsch Handmaker, Lynn Galvin, Martha Blue, Charles Dunham, Karen Reed, and Dean Burmeister.

Thank you to Dana Hinesly, Karen North, Trish Burdick, Nannette White, Natalie Veidmark, Tim and Flower Darby, Cyndee Andrino, and Heather Wiest for your friendship.

Thank you to fellow authors Sara Wilson Etienne, Amie Kaufman, Shannon Messenger, Kimberly Sabatini, Allan Mouw, Jodi Moore, Jeff Cox, Chuck Wendig, Stephen Blackmoore, Beth Revis, Austin Aslan, Shonna Slayton, Bill Konigsberg, Erin Jade Lange, and James A. Owen for your support and example.

Thank you to the booksellers, librarians, and bloggers who've enthusiastically supported this series, including the incredible people at Changing Hands, the Poisoned Pen, and Mysterious Galaxy. Special thanks to Lee Whiteside, James Blasingame, Faith Hochhalter, Brandi Stewart, Jeff Kronenfeld, and Maryelizabeth Hart.

Thank you to my parents for instilling in me a love for bo
oks at an early age. Apologies, again, for the crayon scribbles in your antique-poetry collection. I think it was a sign. Thanks to my brother for all the Saturday mornings spent watching sci-fi movies and episodes of
The Twilight Zone.
I think that probably was a sign, too.

Thank you to Zoe and Cooper for your boundless joy and imagination. You inspire me no end. Thank you to my husband, Jim, for convincing me to give this writing thing a try in the first place. None of this would have happened without your love and support, not to mention your making sure the house didn't fall apart while I was on deadline.

In the words of Joe Banks: “Dear God…thank you for my life. I forgot how
big.
Thank you. Thank you for my life.”

Finally, thank you, Reader. May you never stop asking,
What if?
And may you live a life your parallel self will envy.