by Rysa Walker
This is the first time I’ve written this note without Kiernan. He’s still alive, but his memory goes a bit more each day. He knows me, knows the children, but he gets confused, especially when he first wakes up. He touched my face today, smiled, and said, “The scar is finally gone,” so I know he was thinking of you.
Kiernan thought about you a lot for the first few years. I’ll admit I was a bit jealous at first, until he told me that I’m a better kisser.
She adds a winky face at the end—I’ll bet she was a pioneer with emoticons.
I know that no time has passed for you. You’re still young, with your life ahead of you. I only hope it’s as happy as mine has been, and that one day, you’ll hold a book of memories like this one in your hands—although I guess you may click through the pictures. That’s one of the things I still miss. We’ve made it to the radio and finally to TV, but we’ll never make it to the iPad.
Kiernan sends his love—and I guess I’m okay with that. Give mine to Mom, Dad, and Katherine.
Kate
My fingers flip through the small photo album that chronicles over fifty years of the family Dunne. Birthdays, weddings, graduations. A picture of Other-Kate in a cap and gown outside of a university. But the one that I look at longest is near the end. The date stamp on the margin reads 1962, and someone has scrawled “World Series Champs” beneath it. He would have been nearly eighty. He’s at a stadium, wearing a Yankees cap, with a bunch of kids around him.
Kiernan’s grin is as wide and happy as the one on the face of the little girl he holds in his lap. Does she know that Grandpa (Great-Grandpa?) has already seen that game? Probably more than once, in fact.
I stare at that picture for several minutes. Mostly at Kiernan’s eyes, which, despite the wrinkles around the edges, are still the same. Then I stick the letter and the book back into the manila envelope on the counter and join the others on the patio.
Little Connor is a friendly guy, full of energy. He chatters and climbs in and out of laps while we eat. He has a blast throwing the Frisbee for Daphne, and she’s pretty good-natured about the fact that it only goes a few feet. One sight makes me a little teary-eyed, however. I pull out my phone and snap a picture. Katherine holding her great-great-great-great-great-grandson has to be one for the history books.
I shove the last pizza box into a trash bag, and Trey walks out back with me to drop the bags into the bin. Jennifer and Connor left around nine, when Katherine went to bed, because they have an early return flight to Columbus. There were promises to keep in touch, but I don’t know if she will—I think we may have struck her as a bit too friendly and definitely too emotional. Jennifer kept giving me the oddest looks, like maybe she was really wondering about that whole reincarnation thing. Ben and Charlayne exited shortly after they did, followed by Dad and Sara—all of them probably seeking a few minutes alone.
This is also the first moment that Trey and I have been alone, totally alone, since our drive to Tilson’s the day Julia was killed. And here we are carrying trash bags. How romantic.
That doesn’t seem to bother Trey. The garbage can lid is barely down before his arms are around me, and his mouth is on mine.
“I’ve needed to do that for . . . I guess it’s only a few days, but it feels like a year.”
“Shh.” I reach up to kiss him again, and he lifts me so that my face is level with his. I wrap my legs around him, and we enter that other reality—the one where there’s nothing else except for his body and mine, his lips and mine. I could keep my time train on that track for all eternity.
He presses my back against the wall of the garage and pulls away from the kiss so that he can look at me. “I missed you. And I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you. Mom’s still a little freaked out, saying I took too many risks, and—”
“It’s okay, Trey. Just give her time. I understand how she feels.” And I do. I never wanted Trey in the middle of all this, and if he’d been hurt . . . I can’t even think about it without shuddering.
But if I hadn’t pulled him in, if I’d waited to hand him that envelope, we’d still be strangers. And what if we never reached this point? What if one of the necessary ingredients for rebuilding us was that touch of danger, that risk of losing love at its very start?
“The only reason I’m here tonight is because I gave her an ultimatum,” he says. “I’m eighteen, and—”
“You are not moving out.”
“Well, no. She backed down, and Dad took my side. Estella, too. She’ll come around.”
Trey kisses me again. When we come up for air, I run my finger across his lips. “So . . . I’m okay at this? At kissing?”
He laughs. “No. You totally suck at it. That’s why I keep coming back for more. What’s with the fishing for compliments?”
“Nothing. I just . . . wondered.”
“You know, if anyone should be insecure right now, it’s me. Kiernan was kind of intense on the ride over here that night.”
“Oh God, I knew that was a bad idea. What did he say to you?”
“Um . . . he said he knew times had changed and that an eighteen-year-old guy might not be thinking in terms of forever, but that he’d be long dead by this time, and he would haunt my ass for all eternity if I hurt you.”
I cringe, covering my face. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I told him that was fine by me, because I don’t ever want to hurt you. In his place, I’d have said the same. But later, seeing the other you . . . with him. That ring on her finger. It made me wonder if things had been different, if she wasn’t still here, whether you’d have . . .”
“No.” I hold his face between my hands so that he can see the truth in my eyes. “You’re not my second choice, Trey. You never have been. I love you, I’m in love with you, and I want—”
I never finish the last words, because he knows what I want, and it’s what he wants. He presses me so tightly against the wall that I can barely breathe, but oxygen isn’t at the top of my priorities right now.
And then his foot hits the recycling bin and we come crashing back down to earth.
“Whoa,” Trey says. “No. Our first time will not be in your grandmother’s garage, five feet from the trash cans.”
I pull his face back to mine and whisper against his lips, “I wouldn’t mind.”
He lets out a shuddery sigh, and we’re kissing again. Then, “No. Not here. Not now.”
And I smile. Because now we can take things slow.
Well, maybe not too slow, but there’s no mad rush. No risk that reality will shift and yank him away from me.
We have all the time in the world.
∞Epilogue∞
Hon. Tegan J. Michel
Chair
Senate Select Committee on Temporal Mechanics
313 Franken Senate Office Building
Washington, EC 20510-3003-02
Date: April 1, 2141
Subject: Progress Report Q2/41
Attached please find the full quarterly progress update for AJG Temporal Studies.
Summary of activities:
Confirmed that the device is designed for viewing and traveling to set coordinates.
Access is limited to those with the specific genetic pattern that we isolated, as reported in Q1/41.
Seven tests subjects have successfully viewed events in the past for several seconds.
One test subject has completed a round-trip “jump” to one of the preset locations on the device.
Request extended funding for FY2143, so that the test group may expand to 200 subjects.
∞Acknowledgments∞
With my first two books, it never felt like the end until I started writing acknowledgments. The same is true this time, except now, it’s the END end. Gulp. Kate and the rest of the crew have been hanging out in my head for nearly a decade now. They showed up when my two youngest boys, both now in middle school, were still in Elmo slippers. It feels a bit like Kate, Kiernan, and Trey are my other
kids and I’ve just packed them off to college. Hopefully they’ll stop by and visit on occasion. Or drop me an email.
I have a ton of people to thank for helping me get this far. But first, the history bits . . .
I don’t know whether Houdini had a CHRONOS key, but the vast majority of information in this book about the life and death of Houdini is based on the various biographies and information online about the master escape artist and his wife, Bess. The announcement of the challenge and Houdini’s response are verbatim from an Eastbourne newspaper in April 1905.
Houdini was friends with Arthur Conan Doyle, the author of the Sherlock Holmes series and also an avid proponent of spiritualism. The two did indeed part ways after Houdini made a disparaging remark about spiritualists and a lady friend of Doyle’s who was a practicing medium. That said, Houdini consulted mediums himself when he was younger, around the time that he appeared at the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair.
William and Ira Davenport were active in the spiritualist movement and also practicing magicians. Their paths crossed the lives of both Houdini and Victoria Woodhull, who—in addition to running for president in 1872—was also a leader in the spiritualist movement.
Victoria Woodhull and her sister, Tennessee Claflin, were, as Connor notes, not angels, but they were also not the devils they were painted to be by the press of the 1870s. The sisters ran a newspaper, operated the first female stock brokerage firm, and ran Victoria’s campaign for president under the Equal Rights Party long before women could vote. There are several excellent biographies out there for those who’d like to learn more about Woodhull and her sister. Barbara Goldsmith’s Other Powers and Mary Gabriel’s Notorious Victoria are good places to start.
The Beecher-Tilton trial is a fascinating bit of history, both for the part that Woodhull played in the affair and the rampant hypocrisy of the era when it came to women’s roles in society. This “Trial of the Century” is a wonderful reminder that even in this era, which clung to Victorian morality, people were still people with very human urges and foibles.
The equine flu of 1872 resulted in the widespread illness and death of horses. Any visitor to New York City in November of that year would have seen, as Kate did, an unusual number of oxen pulling carts throughout the city.
Anthony Comstock, Special Agent of the YMCA and later a federal postal agent, spent most of his life waging war on anything he believed to be immoral—tobacco, alcohol, birth control, and any mention of sex or the female anatomy. Comstock boasted that he drove at least fifteen different people to suicide in his efforts to keep America clean and chaste.
Finally, those who would like to learn more about Mr. Grumbine’s treatise on auras that Bess Houdini mentions can probably find a copy online at Google Books, as I did. I’m still not convinced that’s why some people see the CHRONOS keys as one color while some see it as another, but it’s an interesting theory.
Now . . . back to the thank-yous.
A multitude of thanks to my wonderful team at Skyscape and Amazon Publishing. Courtney Miller has been there from the very start, and her help and wise counsel at each step of the journey is deeply appreciated. Andrew Keyser and Tyler Stoops, thanks for patiently dealing with questions on the business and marketing side. Timoney Korbar and Erick Pullen, although you’ve moved on to other realms in the APub universe, you started this ride with me. Thanks for all your work launching this series—you are missed!
Marianna Baer, my wonderful developmental editor, deserves an award for patiently enduring conundrums, confusion, and multiple time travel headaches. This series would be a tangled mass of wet spaghetti without you, and your efforts are truly appreciated. There would be a multitude of typos, missing words, and other glitches if not for the eagle-eyed efforts of my excellent copy editor, Renee Johnson. Scott Barrie and Cyanotype Design—thanks for creating gorgeous, colorful covers that grab the eye of prospective readers. Kate Rudd has my endless gratitude for being the “voice” of the CHRONOS Files and bringing my characters and stories to life.
As much as I chide myself about spending too much time on social media, the readers and writers I interact with every day on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads keep me motivated, informed, and amused. My fellow Skyscape and sci-fi authors can always be counted on to lend support, answer questions, and spread the word. And I need to give a very special shout-out to the members of JUGs, who allow me to vent in a safe space and provide me with a wide array of distractions.
The CHRONOS Files World launched in Kindle Worlds back in November, and an intrepid group of authors—David Estes, E. B. Brown, J. L. Johnson, and Patrice Fitzgerald—have already ventured into the timey-wimey, twisty chaos, with more still to come. Even as I wrap up this series, I’m happy to know that there are more CHRONOS stories coming, including stories that will be new to me. I love seeing where other writers’ imaginations will take my characters and ideas.
Beta readers and book pushers, you are authors’ angels. My Beta Bunch fearlessly braved the typos, unfinished sentences, and other insanity that comes with reading my early drafts, and instead of cursing me for messing with their brains, they actually thanked me and gave me wonderful, indispensable feedback. Other readers have tirelessly plugged my books to friends, book clubs, Facebook, and the entire Twitterverse. Since there is a lot of overlap between these groups, virtual hugs, margaritas, chocolate, and undying gratitude go out (in alphabetical order) to: Alexandria Ang, Ariana Ascherl, Mary Anna Ascherl, Karen Benson, Vanessa Bernard, Bill Brooks, E. B. Brown, Allison Clowers, Kristi and Marshall Clowers, James Cobalt, Lorca Damon, Susan Allison Dean, Elizabeth Evans, Patrice Fitzgerald, Rebecca Ford, Joe Frazier, Mary Freeman and Maddy Freeman-McFarland, Jen Gonzales, Bonnie Harrison (thanks, Mama!), Donna Harrison Green, Mike and Lana Harrison, Matthew Izen, Stephanie Johns-Bragg, Joy Joo, Theresa Kay, Dana Kolbfleisch, Jeff Kolbfleisch (who also takes wonderful author photos!), Richard Lawrence, Mary Frances Lebamoff, Oleg Lysyj, Jenny MacRunnel, Cale Madewell, Nooce Miller, Tasha Patton-Smith, Lesa Ruckman, Simon Rudd, Sarah Short, John Scafidi, Lydia Smith, Gareth Sparks, Karen Stansbury, Teri Suzuki, Janet B. Taylor, Billy Thomas, Antigone Trowbridge, Ian Walniuk, Ryan Walniuk, Libby Wells-Pritchett (you too, Jebb!), Jen Wesner, Dan Wilson, Jessica Wolfsohn, and my multitude of nieces and nephews. There are undoubtedly a dozen or so other people whose names will pop into my brain the second I see this in print—apologies in advance!
To Ryan, Donna, and all of the others who argued so fervently that this book should be Time’s End, I give you permission to call it by that title. I’ll even make you a crappy fake cover. ☺
Many of Daphne’s quirks and attributes are courtesy of my canine companions during this series—Lucy, our current office mate, and Mocha, the wonderful, stubborn, and loving beagle-and-who-knows-what-else mix, who was around when Kate’s story began but didn’t make it to the end.
Thanks again to the extended family who encouraged me, pushed books into my hands as a kid, and gave me your love and support.
To my kids—none of whom are exactly “kids” anymore. Thanks to all three of you for making your mom laugh and making your mom proud. To the two youngest, thanks for reminding me to feed you when my brain is in the Writing Cave, and thanks for putting your dishes in the dishwasher. (Okay, the last one is wishful thinking.) To Eleanor, thanks for the My Little Pony drawings and all of the other ways you remind me about the power of imagination and creativity.
This last book in the series is dedicated to Pete, but I want to elaborate a bit here at the end. He has managed to coexist in the same house with me for longer than anyone else on earth and even shares an office most days—that takes a special brand of patience, especially when I’m on deadline. Thanks for taking up the slack when I’m in the Writing Cave and for being my tech support, science consultant, idea sounding board, 3-D design guy, and very best friend.
And finally, the biggest thanks are reserved for you, the reader who actually made it to the end with me. Storytelling re
quires two minds. The writer draws the basic outlines and adds some detail. It’s never complete, however, until the reader fills in that outline with the colors and experiences of his or her own life. Thanks for helping to tell my stories—and I hope you’ll be part of my next storytelling team, wherever that journey may take us.
∞About the Author∞
Photo © Jeff Kolbfleisch
RYSA WALKER is the author of runaway hit Timebound, winner of the grand prize in the 2013 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest, and Time’s Echo, the linked novella.
Walker grew up on a cattle ranch in the South, where her entertainment options included talking to cows and reading books. On the rare occasion that she gained control of the television, she watched Star Trek and imagined living in the future, on distant planets, or at least in a town big enough to have a stoplight.
She now lives in North Carolina, where she shares an office with her husband and their golden retriever, Lucy. She still doesn’t get control of the TV very often, thanks to two sports-obsessed kids.
