me. Again, a violent shove. I fall to the ground; the pavement jars my body. My teeth rattle, and my ribs feel crushed.
He moves, but all I see are darting shadows and hollow, haunted eyes gleaming from underneath the hat pulled low. Familiar and disarming.
His arm lifts high in the air. Fast. Purposeful.
I see the glint. The shine. The blade of a knife.
Shit.
He brings the knife down. I roll but I'm too late. Pain sears my side. Immediately, my skin feels wet. The blood soaks my clothes, the metallic smell rising between us. I want to fight. To follow my instinct. To survive. But I can't.
The ache grips my heart and shatters it to pieces. "Dad?"
Laughter, mocking and deep, chills me.
"I ain't your dad, kid."
The spit dries in my mouth. I can't place the voice. It hits me that this guy isn't playing around. He's got me. Separated from my world. I'm not born in 1990. No one would ever miss me. No one in my reality would ever find me. I take several deep breaths. I'm tired of being scared, tired of his mind games.
"Who the hell are you?" I ask. My voice sounds braver than I feel.
He steps forward so he's half in shadow, half in light. I still can't make out his face.
"Just like your dad. Cocky. Selfish. So sure of everything but blind to the people around you."
He's on the edge of losing it. I think back to all my times dealing with Stick. Better to lay low than try and prove myself to this psycho. I can't move anyway. The pain is too great.
"If you think you and your dad are the only ones to jump through time. Think again." His voice turns hard and mean. "I worked my whole life for this job. Each time you go back and interfere, I never end up with the paintings. It's his fault. Your dad stole from me. And now I'll steal something precious from him. His son. Payback's hell."
"It's been you." He's been following me, watching me. Leaving me notes. Hitting me with his car.
"Yeah, that's right. I've been watching, waiting for years. I figured at some point, you'd end up at the heist. I was right. And Jack Brodie, you've made the wrong decisions."
I groan and grab my side. Instinct commands me to crumple to the ground, pretend the injury is worse than it is.
He laughs and steps into the light. I recognize the bushy hair and big nose.
Not Kyle. But, Ian Kronin. From some other reality. Some other time. Just like me.
"Goodbye, young Brodie." He gives me one last kick in the gut. "I'm sure no one will ever miss you."
I watch. Instead of fading into the shadows, Ian approaches the side door of the museum. He works on the door, trying to open it. I hear the metal against metal.
He's going inside.
My dad's inside.
This guy wants total revenge. He'll mess up the heist and my life. If he kills my dad, I'll never be born.
I scramble to my feet and make it across the street. Just as he slips inside, I stick my foot in the door. I wait, clutching my side as the blood seeps through my fingers. I give him time to climb the stairs or go down a hallway.
Seconds pass. A sweat breaks out. Do I enter? Or is he waiting for me? Did he hear me cross the street? Did he realize the door never clicked shut?
I lick my lips. Cautiously, I open the door. The dark envelops me and I cringe. Waiting for a blow. It never comes.
The room is quiet and still.
Somewhere in the building, footsteps echo. Instead of tracing the path of the heist, I head down a different hallway.
Blood seeps. Drops splatter the floor. Leaving a trail. Shit. Everything's messed up. In the dark, the paintings and tapestries on the walls look creepy. Pale faces stare at me, illuminated by fake candles.
I turn a corner and see Ian flash into a room. I wish for Jetta's taser. Something to protect myself. I grab a vase from a table in the hall. I hope it's not a million dollar one. I reach a wide stairwell at the opposite side of the building.
I'm the predator now.
Muffled noises sound from the rooms above. The museum has three floors that wrap around the courtyard. They could be anywhere.
Footsteps echo far enough ahead that I can't see him but close enough that I can hear him.
I suck in a breath, grip the vase, and press against the wall. My eyes dart back and forth expecting Ian to appear, a knife in his hand.
No one comes. I breathe out. My whole body shakes. I have to go on. I enter a room. The lavish decorations drape the walls and furniture like I'm in another time period. I cross through several rooms.
Then I hear movement. Close by. He's in the next room.
I stand at the doorway, waiting, ready. I'll knock him out, drag him outside, and the heist will happen as it's supposed to. They'll have no explanation for the drops of blood on the floors.
Footsteps are right on the other side. I hear his breathing. I lift the vase.
When the shadow appears in front of me, I bring the vase down against his head. The ceramic cracks and shatters. Pieces fall to the floor.
The man collapses, groaning, his hands gripping his head.
Someone claps. The voice digs through me like his knife did before. "I couldn't have done it better myself." The alternate-reality Ian struts over. "Thanks for taking care of everything. My job is almost done here." He salutes and leaves the room.
I drop to my knees and roll the man over. "No!" It's my dad. Streams of dark crimson pour down the side of his head. My chest shudders and I hear sobs. Mine.
I shake him. Yell at him. But he doesn't respond. I lay my head on his chest. "I'm so sorry," I whisper.
I stay like that. Dad groans and mumbles every so often.
I don't know how much time has passed when I hear sirens wail in the distance. It clicks. Ian pressed the panic button on his way. To make sure we're stuck here.
Shoving my arms under Dad's shoulder, I drag him across the floor. "Come on, let's go." I make it half way across the floor. "You can do it. Help me." His body is dead weight. He's groaning. Asking questions. But completely out of it.
The real Ian Kronin, Dad's friend and partner in crime, rushes out the door with the last of the paintings tucked under his arm. "Hey!" I yell, but he disappears.
Pain jabs at my side. The blood runs down my stomach. Everything will be okay if I can just get my dad outside and into the shadows. No one will see us. No one will know.
His legs thump down the wide marble stairs. I'm almost there.
The doors burst open. The uniforms flood the room. Their footsteps thud and their badges flash. The men yell. Questions pepper the air, aimed at Dad and me, but their voices are one big buzz. All I can see is the blood staining my hands, my arms. Dad's blood. All I can see is the pain in his eyes. All I can see is that I've failed.
Again.
Dad jerks into consciousness as if he has a built-in radar for cops. He reaches in the back of his pants. The barrel of a gun gleams.
Shots ring out.
I scream.
Dad lies in my arms. Bleeding. Two bullets entered his chest. The room blurs. My stomach churns. I crunch over, hanging onto my dad but I'm ripped from his arms, and I'm gone.
MARCH 17, 2013
DAY FIVE
12:10 a.m.
I wake up on the floor in my room.
Immediately, I stand. I don't even dare to think that this life is back to normal. I know it will be some twisted version. One that hurts the people I love.
I glance at the blood on my skin and clothes. I feel for the wound at my side. I push past my injuries. I can't think about them. I have to go back. Now.
I stumble across my room and fall. I groan and curl in a ball. Tears leak out. Is this what it has come to? That I won't survive? Dad's dead and I'm next?
Ian Kronin wins?
Never.
Just the thought of his bulbous nose and cocky voice motivates me. He's the one who's been following me, watching me. It was never my dad.
I push up to my feet, wo
bble, and then grab a baseball bat from the umbrella stand. It's not my dad's but it will do. Half way down the stairs, my legs give out on me, and I fall.
The thuds and clomps wake everyone up.
I land at the bottom. I need to get to a painting.
"Call the police!" Mom calls.
Heavy footsteps follow my path down the stairs. I know it can't be Dad. I crawl toward the other wall where I pray the paintings are hung.
A familiar voice says, "You call them, Eliza. I'll take care of this."
I stand. "No! Don't! It's me." I hold up a hand against the glare of a flashlight.
"Who the hell are you?"
"It's me. Jack!"
Mom hurries down the stairs. She screams. I realize I'm covered in blood. "We have to call an ambulance."
Kyle tries to shoo her back upstairs. "It's just some street kid. I'll take care of it."
I whirl around. The paintings are gone. The wall is practically bare.
I grab at Kyle, gripping onto the front of his shirt, and flash a look to Mom. "The paintings! Where are the paintings?"
Mom places her hands on the sides of my face. She's crying. She stumbles away. "I'll call the hospital."
"Mom," I beg. "Where are the paintings? Please tell me."
Her face pales, there's compassion in her eyes, but also a cold indifference. She doesn't know me. I've never existed. "You're just confused. I'm not your mom, but we'll help you. Don't worry."
I turn to Kyle. "You!"
Kyle grips the flashlight like a weapon. Like I'm crazy and might do anything.
"Where are they?" I demand.
Kyle pales and backs up. I see it in his eyes. He's knows which paintings I'm talking about. He just doesn't know my part in it or that my dad ever existed or his brother is a murderer.
Then I remember the copy of the painting that Jetta gave me. My