Follow in your old man's footsteps." Frank cocks his hat and leans back in the chair.
"My dad is a thief." I struggle to mask my true emotions.
"Let's just say we've overlooked some poor decisions on his part in exchange for him tracking down lost art and preventing big heists, like you almost did with the Gardner."
"I didn't do anything." My voice cracks. "The paintings are gone. My dad is gone."
The image of a face with piercings and dark make-up flash in my mind. The twisted look on her face.
It's your fault.
"Maybe so," Frank says. "But the thieves were brought to justice and look at the profound effect it has had on your life. On your mom and your friends. They'll rise above the rough streets."
I remember the look of pain and sadness in Jetta's eyes.
It's your fault.
"What if I don't want to be like my dad?" I scrape my fingernail down the side of the black iron table. That used to be all I wanted. To be like my dad. The Brodie who could charm a room with his smile and witty jokes. The Brodie everyone looked up to and feared and admired.
Frank takes off his hat and runs his fingers along the rim. "There aren't too many people with the ability to use art to transport through the time space continuum. We'll make sure your family and friends are safe."
In my mind, I see the mask of hatred fall across Jetta's face and feel the burn of her cigarette on my flesh. It still burns.
It's your fault.
"All my friends?" I ask.
Frank's lips twitch. He leans forward in his chair. "Well, not all of them. You see, with every choice we make in time travel there's what we call fall out. Others call it the butterfly effect. Nothing is ever perfect. For every positive effect there's also a negative effect."
The skin on my chest still burns. Hotter than hell.
Frank says, "It doesn't matter how many times you go back, there will never be the perfect solution. Someone will pay the price."
"Are you a time traveler?"
Frank nods yes.
"Why don't you find the art thieves?"
"First, I'm dead. I traveled here from the past. Second, I'm a detective, so I can't be the inside man too. That's the role your dad plays. Someday, I'm hoping you'll take his spot."
I stop asking questions. I flash back to the middle of the night when Dad first appeared to me. He wore the fancy tuxedo to mingle at parties with people who might be thieves. No wonder he changed. Working as a slave for Frank and turning his back on his buddies and the way of life he loved had sucked the life right out of him. Dad had been right when he said I'd have a decision to make. From the very start I looked for the wrong kind of decision.
"Anymore questions?" Frank asks.
"No."
"Enjoy the wonderful new life you've made for your family. Someone from the department will contact you in the future, when you're of age." Frank stands and straightens his suit coat. He nods and strolls down the street, getting lost in the crowds.
I stand and press my hands against the shop window. Am I willing to accept the changes? Mom's happy. My friends will make it out of high school alive. Big D's safe. Dad's out of jail. Life should be perfect. But?
It's your fault.
Those are the only words that speak to me.
12:16 p.m.
I open the door to the coffee shop. The whirlwind of smells and laughter overwhelm me.
Stick rushes by carrying a tray of dirty dishes. He shoves a wet rag into my hands. "Here. Wash down those tables by the Rembrandt."
With the wet rag in hand, I walk between the tables to the far wall. A battle rages in my mind, going back and forth between the good and the bad of this alternate reality. And there is so much good. But one person shouldn't have to be the sacrifice for that happiness. Life shouldn't work that way.
The Rembrandt is a copy of A Lady and Gentleman in Black. A woman with a white clown collar and a pale face sits in a chair. A man with a Zorro-like cape stands in a heroic stance. I stare into the man's eyes, captivated by the look on his face.
The man looks lost, even for a hero.
Moments later the wet rag drops from my hand.
MARCH 18, 1990
12:30 a.m.
Without a glance at the gray hatchback, I cross the street. The chill in the air sends shivers down my arms. This journey is a repeating nightmare, one I hope will end soon. Further down the road, I duck behind the cars still wet from the earlier rain.
The first time I traveled back to the Gardner heist, I was clueless. I didn't even know I went back into the past. Naively, I thought the men in the hatchback were real cops. The drunken kids scared the shit out of me when we fought over Dad's leather coat.
None of that scares me. None of that matters.
My goal is to stay hidden until the heist is over or until I'm transported back.
After all this time, I finally know the choice I have to make. I know what Dad was crying out for and asking of me, even if he didn't realize it at the time.
Dad wants to be set free.
Even if that means going back to jail for stealing diamonds.
I'm about to observe one of the world's biggest art heists. And do nothing to stop it. The heist has to happen exactly the way it's supposed to happen. With the thieves escaping. The famous paintings never being found. And neither Dad's name nor Kronin's name ever becoming part of the heist history.
I pick a spot where I can see the museum between two cars and crouch down, hidden.
1:00 a.m.
In my mind, I distance myself from the museum, from Dad and Kronin, from the heist that Jetta wanted me to prevent. The college kids from the party come and go, roaring away in their car. They've nothing to fear from the cops watching them.
The street is still and silent.
Cold water drips onto my head from an oak tree towering above. A shiver races down my back as the water trails down my scalp. I try not to move.
The doors open to the hatchback. The hinges squeak. The thieves with their Boston police patches and official trench coats step out. The slam of the car door echoes in the night. They approach the side door of the Gardner with the swagger of real policemen.
I listen as the thieves convince the guards they need to check out a disturbance in the courtyard. The door buzzes and the thieves enter.
I used to be mad that Dad turned out to be such a con artist, but now, it just makes me sad. He's the one missing out on life, while chasing down the next thrill.
The door to the Gardner clicks shut. The street is still and silent once again.
1:24 a.m.
I envision the thieves asking the guard to call down any other staff. Dad'll ask him to step out from behind the desk because he looks familiar. That's the crucial moment when he moves away from the panic button. That button is the only way to contact the outside world.
The action and sounds of the heist play out in my head as if I'm there in the room.
Handcuffs click around the guard's wrists. Duct tape rips. The thieves herd the guards into the basement and reassure the hostages they won't be hurt.
My fingertips are sore because I'm digging them into the grit on the sidewalk. I shake them out, then close my eyes and picture the movements of the thieves.
1:48 a.m.
They steal up the marble steps of the staircase and into the first room. As they move too close to the painting the motion sensor sounds.
From the street, I hear it briefly before it stops when Dad smashes it in with his foot.
They move across the room to the Rembrandt of Jesus in the boat. They smash the painting out of its frame and roll it up.
"Sorry, Jetta," I whisper into the night air. But this night is for her. I'll sacrifice these paintings for her happiness.
They take down and slice out another Rembrandt. And then a Vermeer and a Finck. And for good measure, they snatch a Chinese goblet.
1:51 a.m.
My heart rate
increases and my breathing is shallow. I remember setting off the smoke bomb in Big D's garage. My friends and I had been giddy with the thrill of doing something we shouldn't. My senses were on high alert that night, and afterward I couldn't suppress the laughter. But we were just children playing a prank. I envision the thieves running through the rooms filled with paintings, feeling the same way.
Maybe that's how Dad got started in his life of crime. A small prank meant just for thrills. And then he was hooked.
The thieves enter a small, narrow room. A portrait of Isabella Stewart Gardner hangs on the wall, watching over her prized possessions. They ignore the cold stare of Isabella and grab five small sketches from the wall, leaving shards of glass and wood on the floor. One thief jumps on top of a cabinet and starts unscrewing the glass case protecting Napoleon's battle flag. Instead of finishing, he rips off a small eagle from the top of the flagstaff.
I think about Jetta's dad destroying the student artwork and framing me. I doubt her dad ever felt giddy from crime. He did it to save his daughter, not for the thrill. But did that make it right?
I hug my arms tighter around my body. A wave of dizziness hits me. I won't be here much longer. I peek through the cars at the museum.
Footsteps echo behind me, and prickles shoot up and down my spine.
I whip around and see nothing but shadows. Everything in me screams to run, to leave right now, back to my world, but I can't. I'm frozen. Terrified. Curious.
A dark shadow rushes me, his body, a hulking mass. I try and move but he rams into me; my body is thrown against the car. The air shoots from my chest. I stumble forward, and his rough hands find