No Unturned Stone (The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone 2)

“So, what happens to my memories when I come back? If I’ve changed things, then why don’t I remember them?”

“Because your consciousness travels outside of time. Think of it like flying. Then, when you return to your time, the place you started, you ‘come back to earth’.” Art finger quotes the words. “And once you land, your memories will start catching up. The longer you’re in the current time, the more your beginning memories will sync with your new memories.”

Which means the longer I stay here, the more my Ashley, my seven-year-old cherub, vanishes. I breathe out low and long. “So how did this happen?”

“Were you thinking about anything specific when you, um, went back?” Art asks.

The cold case. “I was holding a file on the coffee shop bombings. And I went back to the moment of the first bombing.”

“So, the connection is your cold cases,” Meggie says.

“Those contain some pretty powerful regrets, I’m guessing.” Art is looking at me, something of compassion in his eyes.

I nod.

“So powerful, that you might wish yourself back there, to do something different.”

I see where he’s going. “And that desire could be powerful enough to cause chronothesia?”

“Maybe,” Art says.

“And the watch?”

“My theory is that it acts like the GPS system, taking you to the right place and time,” Art says.

“But it doesn’t even work.” I pull back my shirt sleeve to reveal the watch, the hands still frozen.

“Doesn’t it?” Art says.

Oh, right…

I have to ask the question but am terrified of the answer. “Can I reset it? Fix it?”

I need my world back.

“Where did you get the watch?” Meggie asks, leaning forward.

“His boss.” I can’t believe Art remembers that. “The police chief.”

Silence.

“Please tell me I can fix what I’ve done.” I sound desperate, because, well, I am.

More silence.

“Art?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But remember, if you try to rewrite time, you risk changing a trillion other tiny elements that can have dire consequences.”

Hello. This isn’t news to me.

“You could go back and put right what went wrong.” Meggie says, her gaze on her father.

“I saved lives,” I say. “I can’t go back and…blow up the coffee shop.”

Although if I could, would I? Right now, maybe I would, although I’m ashamed to admit it.

“I think it’s not a matter of fixing, but of creating a rewrite you can live with…” Meggie says. “Or,” and she lifts a shoulder, “Maybe you just stay here, and try and live with your new reality.”