That’s what bothered Adeline the most: in the puzzle that was her life, the pieces didn’t quite fit.
A text lit up her phone. It was from the CEO of Syntran, again requesting a meeting. She apparently had ignored the email autoresponder. Adeline had to respect her persistence. She sent a message back telling her to proceed with whatever she thought best for the company. Adeline had bigger issues at the moment.
*
Hiro managed to update the Absolom machine two days before Sam departed.
When Adeline had asked Elliott how sure he was that it would work—that Absolom Two would indeed deliver Sam alive, and in one piece, to the Triassic, the older scientist had simply shrugged. “Pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure?”
“Look, it worked for the mice we tested it on.”
“How do you know?”
“The mice fossils we recovered indicate that they were alive at the time of arrival.”
That didn’t make Adeline feel much better, but there was nothing she could do about it. Time and life had taught her one thing: you do all you can, and at some point, it’s either enough or it’s not. The tides of a life and your efforts either carry you in. Or sink you.
*
Adeline barely slept the night before her father’s departure. She had lived it once, and she had never truly gotten over seeing him disappear in that box.
But she knew she had to watch it one last time.
As she stood in the viewing booth, waiting for the glass to change from black to transparent, she reflected that time had another magical quality: steeling the soul. She looked down at her younger self, in the row in front of her, knowing a wave of agony was about to hit her.
Adeline knew that she herself could tolerate seeing her father ripped out of the universe. That was the advantage of time. It conditioned the heart to the worst assaults. Or maybe it was natural to feel less as one grew older. Maybe a mind could develop scar tissue too. Emotional scar tissue. Adeline had her share.
The glass turned transparent, revealing the Absolom machine in the center of the room.
Her father was lying on the floor, wearing the thick white departure ensemble.
He pushed up and glanced around at the machine, seeming surprised, then through the glass door, up to the viewing booth.
His eyes met his daughter’s stare, and Adeline remembered exactly how that felt—as if a hot poker had been run through her.
She watched her counterpart break then. She stood, practically jumped to the glass window, and slammed her fist into it. A gong sound echoed through the room, loud and borderline disorienting, as if the waves were rattling Adeline’s brain.
Adeline remembered the pain from that blow, remembered ignoring it as she pounded the glass. The scream that accompanied the beating was even worse, the word “Dad!” drawn out like a battle cry.
She rose, stepped outside the two rows of chairs, and put her hands on her younger counterpart’s shoulders. Gently, she guided her back to her seat and stood watching as her father got to his feet and tried to smile. His lips were shaking, preventing a smile from forming. He managed to draw it across his lips on the second attempt.
The machine vibrated.
Adeline’s counterpart reached over and put an arm around her brother.
One memory that had always stuck with Adeline was the moment the first Absolom prisoner had disappeared in the box. In that split second, she had seen total fear in the man’s eyes.
She didn’t see that in her father. He was scared, but in his eyes, she saw resolve. She saw hope. She saw a man who believed he had a future. A man who was alone but believed that he wouldn’t always be alone.
What she realized in that moment was the difference between the two men in the box. The first Absolom prisoner had no hope. Her father did. Hope was his anchor to this world.
In that instant, Adeline saw how powerful hope was. It was the true lever of Absolom. It was how the machine had transformed the world. Because it took the last shred of hope from even the most hopeless.
She blinked, and her father was gone.
She was still standing there, and like the man in the box, she held on to hope. She would get him back. Soon.
SIXTY-EIGHT
Adeline knew that everyone lied to themselves at some point in their lives. It was part of preserving one’s ego. Maybe it was more than that, but the task for Adeline was somewhat different. She actually had to lie to her younger self. If she didn’t, the past wouldn’t occur as it had. The universe would cease to exist.
So she did.
Adeline watched as her younger counterpart spun her wheels, searching Constance’s home for clues about whether she was the killer. Then Elliott’s residence. And finally, the empty home Hiro owned in Las Vegas, with the tunnel that led to the high-roller room beneath the strip.