66
I wake to the sound of buzzing.
Really loud buzzing that’s soon followed by pounding.
A moment later, the room floods with light.
“Tasha!”
A whispered voice.
A hand on my shoulder.
A face looming so close to mine.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
I flip onto my belly and bury my face in a soft feathered pillow, but the voice sounds again. “Tasha, please—look at me.”
Inside my head, a storm rages. I inhale a ragged breath and will it to pass.
“I left a ton of messages and—”
With a sigh, I roll onto my back and inch up the headboard, as Braxton takes in the state of my matted hair, the dress I was wearing last night that I apparently slept in.
“Aw shit,” he whispers, and draws me tightly to him. “I can’t believe she’s still doing this.”
I pull back, run a finger under each eye, and stare in dismay when it comes away streaked with mascara.
“You knew, and you didn’t warn me?” My voice is a rasp, my throat so parched, Braxton immediately reaches for the glass of water I keep by my bed and hands it to me.
“She swore she was done with all that. I should’ve known better than to believe her.”
I look beyond the drapes he must’ve opened. Outside, it’s raining.
I look inside my head and replay the reel of Braxton and Elodie bickering over broken promises, bitter memories, things that happened long before me, while I lay on the couch, my fate in their hands.
But that was true only the first time. Because last night, the choice was mine, and I still ended up here. Strangely, despite everything that’s happened, I know I’d make the same choice again.
I return the glass to my bedside table and train my focus on him. Carefully noting the hint of shadow that swoops under each eye, the tight pinch that pulls at the corners of his mouth. And even though I take my time to study his face, I still can’t determine if it’s worry or guilt that’s got him looking this way.
“You didn’t Trip, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says. “Arthur stopped using the lighthouse ages ago. It’s outdated technology.”
“Looked pretty high tech to me.” I tear my gaze away and turn toward the window, tracking the long ribbons of rain as they stream down the panes.
“Maybe in the outside world, which is totally obsolete,” Braxton says. “But this place, with its natural elements combined with Arthur’s genius, is a century ahead, at least.”
“What are you saying?” Returning to him, I gather my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them, as though I need to fend off whatever comes next, even though I’m the one who asked.
“In short, Gray Wolf Island is a natural wormhole that acts as a portal to the past.” He speaks cleanly, plainly, and while it makes sense on the surface, my mind is in a tangle trying to process his words. “But, in order to securely harness that energy, Arthur developed an advanced technology that not only keeps the wormhole open long enough for a safe departure and return, but also allows him to direct it toward specific moments in time.”
“And the lighthouse?”
“It’s where the phenomenon was first discovered when all the lighthouse keepers went missing.”
“Missing?” My voice rises with alarm, as the horrifying thought spins through my head:Is that what would’ve happened to me if I’d chosen to leave?