One by one, they declared their confidence in the proposed technology that would be called Absolom. When it came to Sam, he glanced at Elliott. In that moment, he saw himself in his old friend, the version of himself that had been busted in that dorm room. He saw a friend who needed help—help to save his son. And Sam did what Elliott had done for him: he lied.

  “Yes. There’s a lot of work to do. But what we’re talking about here is possible. With the right funding.” He stared at Elliott. “And enough time.”

  Because that’s what all of them needed: time and money to save their families and themselves.

  Sam had felt his face turn red. He wondered if it was a giveaway—if the venture capitalists in the room knew it was a sham, if they had a sixth sense about lying scientists desperate for funding.

  They didn’t seem to.

  The meeting ended soon after, and when the others had filed out of the room, Sam lingered behind. Daniele had sat there, at the head of the table, as if she were waiting for him.

  His voice was thick and scratchy when he spoke. “Thank you for making time for us.”

  “It was time well spent.”

  Sam swallowed. “I just wanted to say…” His mind grasped for the right words—the words that would make him feel better, more like the person he knew he was. Less like what he was becoming.

  “I wanted to say that while this…”—he motioned to the projector mounted on the ceiling—“idea is promising, it’s still risky.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “It may not work.”

  “It will. In time.”

  “I just wanted you to be aware of the risk.”

  “Managing risk is our business, Dr. Anderson. We’re not afraid to be far from the shore without a paddle.”

  *

  Under the Triassic sun, Sam could feel his face and his hands starting to blister. His mouth felt like it was filled with sawdust.

  The rule of thumb was that death would come after three days without water. Sam wondered if that accounted for the perspiration from his physical exertion and the heat. Surely that would reduce his survival time. How long did he have out here in these conditions? Another day? Less? Would tonight be his last?

  One thing was certain: sunburn could be deadly too. If his skin peeled and blistered, and he began bleeding in the water, it would bring predators. He’d be like floating chum in the ocean.

  He reached under the thick sweater and ripped his undershirt into strips that he draped over his face. That would provide some protection from the sun, and he could still breathe through the thin white material and see the distorted glow of the sun. Under the shroud, the waves were like a carnival ride, up and down, a rhythmic rocking that finally coaxed him to sleep.

  *

  Sam awoke to the burn of saltwater in his mouth, pushing down his throat like a snake slithering inside of him.

  He coughed, but the wet strips of cloth covering his face repelled the water back into his mouth.

  He ripped the shirt pieces from his face and spun and pumped his arms and legs, coughing as another wave slammed into him.

  He closed his eyes and mouth and waited while the wave crested and passed.

  When he had emptied his mouth and caught his breath, Sam opened his eyes and realized the sea was no longer an expanse of glass with gentle ridges. It was choppy and dimpled, the falling rain punching a pattern of holes all around him.

  Rain.

  He threw his head back and opened his mouth, his tongue reaching out, lapping up every drop. His arms and legs and the buoyant garments kept him out of the water as he closed his eyes again and drank from the sky.

  The drops of rain collected in his mouth like grains of sand through an hourglass, slow at first, then stacking atop each other until Sam took a gulp, and in it, he tasted hope. What happened next brought even more.

  He opened his eyes again and caught sight of the sun. It was low in the sky, threatening to escape beyond the horizon. At that line between light and dark, he saw salvation: a tiny glimpse of land, small and looming.

  Pangea.

  Waiting for him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  In the bathroom at Constance’s home, Adeline stared at herself in the mirror until the tears stopped and she had convinced herself that she could do what she had come there to do.

  Constance rose when Adeline returned.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Adeline shook her head. “It’s not you. This is why I came here. I need to work through my feelings.”

  They sat, and this time Constance seemed resigned to listen rather than talk. She asked Adeline a series of questions, and finally she said, “Dani tells me you’re taking a semester off.”

  “I am.”

  “And interning at Absolom.”

  “Yes.”

  “I admit, when Dani emailed us, I was opposed to it.”

  That surprised Adeline. “Why?”

  “I don’t think Absolom—or college, for that matter—is where you should be right now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You should get away from here, Adeline. I don’t know exactly what’s happening, but it seems to me that someone used you to get to your father.” The older woman held up a bony, spotted hand. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”

  “Not at all. I agree with you.”

  “Staying here, in my view, is dangerous. And not just for your physical safety. You risk your mental health, which, frankly, is any person’s last resource, a citadel you can rebuild from. When I envision you walking through the doors of Absolom Sciences, I can only imagine the hurt you’ll feel, seeing his picture on the wall in that lobby, knowing you’re walking the halls he did. The looks you’ll get. It’ll only remind you of him and what you’ve lost. That’s the last thing you need right now.”

  “What’s the alternative?”

  “Get away, Adeline. Go to Europe. Or Asia. Or just take a long cruise around the world and don’t look back. And don’t come back until you can see a picture of your father or hear his name without crying inside—or outside. That’s how you’ll know you’re healed.”

  Adeline had to admit: it was tempting. She imagined herself standing on the deck of a ship, looking out at the open sea, hearing the clink of champagne glasses behind her, waves crashing on the bow below, a warm wind blowing through her hair. But mentally, as she put herself in that place, she knew the truth, and she spoke it next.

  “I don’t think I could ever travel far enough to outrun the hurt I feel. But I might work my way through it.”

  Constance smiled—a sad, somber smile that seemed to wrap Adeline in its arms. “I know exactly how you feel.”

  Constance turned, and Adeline realized that Gretta was standing on the patio. She pointed to her watch. “Sorry, ma’am. It’s time.”

  Constance thanked her and rose. “When you get to my age—when your health starts failing you—there’s a lot of maintenance. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Constance exited the room and ascended the staircase in slow, labored steps.

  Adeline watched as Gretta strode off the patio, past the pool, and back to the guesthouse just beyond, which must have been where she lived or at least stayed while she was on duty.

  Adeline sensed that this was her moment. It wouldn’t last, but it would be the best chance she had. Now or never. Commit or give up.

  She made her decision.

  She grabbed her bag, drew out the first picture frame, and swapped it with its match in the living room. In the kitchen, she replaced the soap dish.

  She glanced out the window at the backyard, to the guesthouse. The door was still closed.

  Her heart was racing. She listened, but the house was quiet. How much time did she have?

  She dashed to the foyer and set the small plate down and shoved the original in the backpack.

  Now came the risky part.

  She ascended the stairs, eyes wide, watching, listening, ready to retreat.

  At the landing, Adeline heard a noise at the end of the hall. Beyond the closed door of the master bedroom. Constance was in the bathroom.

  One of the matching picture frames sat on a console table a few feet away. Adeline pulled the surveillance frame from the backpack and slipped the picture inside it and stowed the original in the bag.

  She crept across the hardwood floor to the closest door, which she expected to lead to a guest bedroom. When she opened it, Adeline stopped cold. There was no bed in the room. Only a small desk and rolling chair. The walls were covered in cork. Pinned to it were dozens of pictures. And sheets of paper with names. And dates. All in the last twenty years. There was also a massive map of Europe, America, and Asia. Some of the pictures were tacked to places on the map with a note and the date of death.

  It was like something out of the movies. A serial killer’s den. A shrine to deaths across the globe.

  Adeline wanted to run. Every fiber of her being told her to. But she stepped deeper inside the room and gently closed the door. There was too much information here for her to write down. Or memorize. She took out her phone and clicked the video option and began holding it up to everything she saw. She walked around the room, taking it all in.

  Beyond the door, she heard footsteps on the landing.

  Adeline was near the end of the room. The steps drew closer.

  Her hand shook.

  She reached her other hand up to steady the phone, her eyes on the door, expecting the knob to turn. The electroshock weapon was in the bag. Overpowering Constance wasn’t the problem. But what if Constance had help here in the house? What if the caretaker, Gretta, was more than that? What if she was an accomplice?

  Outside the bedroom, Adeline heard footsteps on the stairs, labored, slow steps going down.

  Constance.

  Carefully, Adeline opened the door and peered out. The stairway was clear.

  She heard footfalls on the rug in the foyer.

  Now or never.

  She raced across the upper landing on her tiptoes, hoping the sound didn’t echo below. In the master bedroom, she set down one of the frames and picked up the original, fingers fumbling for the tabs that held the glass and picture in place.

  “Adeline?” Constance called from below.

  Adeline froze. She focused on the frame, but her fingers wouldn’t work. It was as if they had turned to soft rubber.

  “Adeline?” Constance called again from downstairs.

  She was caught.

  Adeline made for the door but stopped. One last chance.

  In the master bathroom, she replaced the soap dish and pulled the medicine cabinet open. Bottles of prescription medications spread out in rows, filling each shelf.

  “Adeline?” Constance’s voice was closer now. Was she on the stairs?

  Adeline drew her phone out, snapped a picture, and dashed out of the room, out into the hallway.

  Constance arrived on the landing a second after, panting, gripping the rail, head down. She looked up and saw Adeline.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The question struck fear into Adeline. She was caught.

  It was over.

  Adeline did the only thing she could. She lied. And she was surprised at how easily it came.

  “I thought you might need help. You were gone so long.”

  Constance squinted at her.

  “And then I needed to use the bathroom.”

  “You went earlier.”

  “I didn’t… I only cried. I had to actually go this time.”

  Constance studied Adeline’s face for a long moment. Her gaze shifted to the strap across her shoulder that led to the backpack filled with the pictures and items Adeline had just stolen from Constance’s home. It was as if the older woman could see right through the bag—and Adeline herself. She had never felt so exposed in all her life. How had she ever thought she could do this? That she could walk into Constance’s home and ever get away with it?

  Had Daniele set her up?

  Constance exhaled, as if disappointed. As if she was dreading whatever she had just decided. She turned and descended the stairs. She didn’t ask Adeline to follow, but the younger woman fell in behind her.

  In the living room, Constance didn’t sit. She stood, the fire crackling behind her, staring at Adeline as she entered the room.

  “Dani said you had something you wanted to give me.”

  Adeline hesitated. The porcelain figurine of her father had a glass eye with a camera in it. Inside it contained the router that would transmit all the signals from the surveillance items she had placed throughout the house to a satellite. But if Constance broke the small statue open, she would instantly see what it really was. All she had to do was release it, and let it drop to the stone patio floor, and it would all be over.

  “Do you have it?” Constance asked.

  Adeline set down the backpack and took out the figurine and handed it to the older woman, who gripped it with both hands and studied it.

  “Interesting,” she murmured. Adeline had the distinct impression that she was staring at the camera in the statue’s eye.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The sun set, and Sam swam for the shore.

  He crested the waves and pumped his arms, making his way toward the small sliver of land on the horizon that was his only chance of survival.

  Soon, the darkness began to swallow the coast. Using the stars above, Sam committed the location to memory. Getting off course could be deadly. This was his second night in the Triassic. It might well be his last. Swimming in the wrong direction might be the last mistake he ever made. Assuming he could even reach the shore.

  With night came another storm that roiled the sea.

  Sam swam on, stopping only to float on his back to rest and gather rainwater in his mouth. The rain and the buoyant outfit were his salvation on the open sea. Would they be enough to see him ashore?

  Sam wasn’t so sure.

  He was weak. A day without food would do that. And Sam had exercised more that day than he had in a long time.

  He felt as though the sea was testing him, and there was no pass or fail. Only live or die.

  The crescent moon glowing above him hung silently like a proctor watching, waiting to see if he had what it took to survive here.

  In his mind, he returned to that source of strength: the vision of him stepping out of Absolom, reaching out and hugging his children, of the world set right again. He didn’t know how he could do it, only that the prospect of seeing them again was worth giving everything he had.

  Sam rolled over and began cutting through the water as the rain pelted harder and the sky grumbled. The storm was growing stronger. He wondered if that was the pattern of this corner of the Pangea coast: late afternoon showers and night storms.

  When the muscles in his arms and legs were burning, he once again flipped onto his back and rested, letting the rain gather in his mouth. He was weary to his bones. And hungry. Exhausted in a way he had never known—or even knew was possible.

  He wondered if he were only swimming for himself—if he didn’t have anyone to come back to—if he would have given it up.

  It wasn’t just seeing his family again. He needed to get back to protect them. Whoever had framed him might be watching them right now—plotting something else.

  He had a promise to keep. And he would, no matter how far he had to swim. He would make it to that shore or die trying. Those were the only two possibilities for him now.

  He realized then what a powerful source of strength a child in danger could be. Nothing gave a parent superpowers like knowing their child needed them and that no one else could help them.

  Sam had never experienced that until now. But he had seen it.

  As he floated, staring at the stars, gathering his strength to battle the sea again, a memory came of lying on a narrow child’s bed, staring up at a smattering of plastic glow-in-the-dark stars that had been puttied to the ceiling. He was holding a book, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis. Adeline lay beside him, her eyes drooping, her small left hand gently resting on his chest. Sleep would come soon for her, but she always fought it with the last shred of strength she had. During her childhood, Sam had likely asked her a million times, “Are you tired?”

  In those years, he had only ever heard one reply: “No.”

  That included the instances when her eyelids were nearly closed and when she fell asleep within sixty seconds of declaring her lack of fatigue. This was one of those times.

  As Sam turned the page, he glanced over at her, checking to see if Adeline had drifted off.

  She saw him and instantly raised her eyelids, fighting to stay awake. He was caught. She wasn’t going to let him get away that easy tonight.

  He continued reading. Across the hall, Ryan was crying. Sarah exited the master bedroom, cradling him in her arms, lightly rocking, her sing-song voice starting a tune to soothe him. This was the anthem of their nights now: a reading dad, a singing, marching mother, and a crying baby.

  On his hip, Sam felt a gentle vibration.

  He drew the phone out and read the caller.

  Elliott.

  Adeline’s eyes were closed again, probably for good for the night.

  Sam gently peeled her hand from his chest, rose, and crept out of the room, swiping to answer the call as he closed the door.

  Elliott was shouting in the background—and someone was screaming back at him.

  Sam jogged down the hallway, his bare feet patting against the creaking hardwood floor.

  “Elliott?”

  In the living room, Sarah was sitting with Ryan in her arms, a finger pressed to the pacifier in his mouth. She looked up at him with bulging eyes that said, I just got him to sleep! Be quiet!

  Sam couldn’t make out the voice shouting back at Elliott. In the background, there was a crash.

  “Elliott!” Sam called. His heart beat faster. His eyes darted back and forth, thinking.

  Sarah’s expression turned from annoyance to concern.

  “Sam?”

  Sam was about to yell into the phone when Elliott spoke, voice ragged. “Sam, I need help.”