15 Minutes: A YA Time Travel Thriller (Rewind Series) (15 page)

Suddenly,
I feel a little better. I now know I’m alive in the future and in well enough
condition to write a note and find a method of time travel. I guess my brain
won't be turned into a vegetable. Somewhere out there, I'm still kicking, at
least to the point where I wrote this note.

But
why? If I’m still alive, if the men didn’t kill me, why risk being exposed by
the note? Maybe Molly was killed. Maybe
Jax
got away
with it? Maybe I was kidnapped and everything went to hell in a hand basket.
Whatever happened, I have to accept that I might never know and thinking about
the what-ifs is only wasting time.

I
need to get out of here, find a place to lay low where I can go over the
documents until the kidnappers call. I can only think of one place people would
never suspect this Lara would go to hide—not her boyfriend's and not her BFF’s
house, but an old friend. I haven’t been to Rick’s house in years.

I
pull out my new cell phone, afraid the existing one might be traced.

After
a few rings, Rick answers. Thank God he didn’t ignore the unknown phone number.

“Rick—”

“Lara?
Are you okay? You’re all over the news.”

Reporters.
Cameras. I forgot all about them. Good thing I didn’t need anything from my
house. Boy, would that have been a mess.

“I’m
okay.” I lie for now. It’s not as if I have time to explain everything.
“Remember how you said if I needed help with my dad you would be there? Well, I
need you, Rick.” My voice cracks, and my chin trembles.

After
a brief pause that feels more like an hour, he responds, “Come to my apartment.
It’s the least I can do. Just wait out by the backdoor, and be quiet.”

I
nod and end the call. I hope I know what I’m doing. Gripping the phone against
my chest, I pray.

I
catch a bus because I don’t want anyone to trace me to Rick’s. When he opens
the door, I’m struck by how tired he appears. His eyes lack their usual
shimmer. He ushers me inside quietly, and we tiptoe past his parents’ room.

His
room is almost identical to how I remember it. The bed, the dresser, everything
looks the same. My eyes are drawn to the small television balancing on top of
his dresser. The volume is turned down low, but the hospital is on the screen
with a horde of reporters in the background. I catch a story scrolling in the
ticker.

Local Girl Kidnapped. Sister escapes
custody from the hospital. Sought by police for questioning.

My
heart skips a beat, and I turn to see Rick’s eyebrow is arched. “You want to
run that
I’m fine
business by me
again?”

“I
am … for now. I have stuff to do. I found it, see? ” I toss my duffle bags onto
his bed.

He
glances at the bags, then returns his stare to me. “What’s in there?”

“The
holy grail of my life. Proof about who killed—tried to kill—my mom. Want to
venture a guess?” I can’t keep the anger out of my voice.

“Well,
I know it isn’t me, so who was it?”

“
Jax
.” I can barely stop myself from breaking down. My
eyelids flutter, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from falling apart.

Rick’s
eyes seem to widen and contract at the same time. “Your stepdad?”

“One
and the same.” I lick the corner of my lips. “One and the same,” I whisper
again, my body going numb.

He
guides me over to his bed and helps me sit down. “What are we going to do? What’s
your plan?”

“Read
it over and see what it is. This can free my dad. I know it! But the kidnappers
will be calling soon. They want this stuff back.”

Rick
sighs. “
Jax
took Molly? That doesn’t make any sense.”

He’s
right. It doesn’t. I bite my lip as I feel the tremor of a headache, but it’s
still light enough for me to ignore. “Can you get me some meds? Tylenol?”

Nodding,
he goes to his dresser and rummages through the top drawer. He tosses me a
bottle of pills, and I swallow them dry. He sits down beside me again on the
sofa and pushes back the curls off my shoulder. When his fingers graze my neck,
I shiver and feel goose bumps rise off my body.

I
gaze at him, wanting to close my eyes, to lean in for that hello kiss. His eyes
are deep and penetrating,

I
feel he wants to kiss me too, but instead he says, “Should we get started?”

His
room is beginning to feel small and hot, so I remove my hoodie and slide down
onto the floor. We start looking through the surveillance photos.

There’s
my mom at our apartment, my dad holding my hand on the way to school, Mom
meeting someone for lunch at an outdoor café…

Hmmm.
I can’t see his face, buried behind a potted tree, but they are holding hands
across the table, and Mom is smiling. In front of them are two iced teas. I squint
and bring the photo closer to my face. Mom isn’t wearing her wedding ring. That
doesn’t make any sense.

My
heart gallops, and I fan the black and white photos in front of me. I search
for that one perfect photo, the one with the smoking gun proving
Jax
is the one who wanted to kill my mother. Instead, I
find the opposite. They were in love.

Jax
, with his blond hair, holds my mother in his
arms under an awning. They are in a deep, passionate kiss, and Mom grips him as
if her life depends on it. It proves what they told me, but it also proves
someone else knew and that someone had been following them.

 
If they were having an affair, why would he
want her dead? And why frame my father? Is it possible I remembered wrong?
Maybe
Jax
didn’t try to kill her after all. Maybe I’m
trying to piece together something that makes sense for my desires, something
simple, cut and dry. I have no idea what is real or imagined anymore.

“Did
this come out in the trial?” I ask.

Rick
nods. “You don’t remember?”

I
glare at him.

“It
came out your mother had an affair. They said your dad hired a private
investigator to follow her and take photos to prove it.”

That
can’t be right. Dad wouldn’t have done that. My stomach sinks like a rock.

Rick
sits down at his computer and boots it up. Is this the right time for him to
check his email?

“What
are you doing?” I ask, unable to get the edge off of my voice.

“Looking
up the court transcripts.”

“You
can do that?”

“They’re
all public record.”

Oh,
I think, but don’t say anything quite so stupid aloud. I listen to Rick’s
typing and close my eyes, allowing my mind to drift away. Rick breaks the
silence, chattering excitedly. “Got it. I thought I remembered my parents
talking about this. Your dad claimed he never paid for a private investigator,
but a money trail convinced them that money went from your dad to the P.I. Your
dad exploded in court and said he was being setup, that Rewind and
Jax
wanted him out of the way. But there was never any
proof he was right. Fifteen minutes later he was held in contempt.”

“Everyone
thought he was lying,” I say, void of emotion. I cross my arms.

“Yeah.”
He turns to face me, his eyes searching mine. “You’re sure he’s innocent?
Really sure? Because it looks like …”

“I
know what it looks like,” I say, hoarse. I take a deep breath, my chest
trembling. I think about the pictures I’ve seen against the backdrop of what I
know of a man who loved me so completely he worked three jobs, never took a
vacation, and never complained other than to say he wanted to spend more time
with me.

I
threw everything I had away without a second thought. I have no choice but to
say, “Absolutely. You or some lame internet document can’t change my mind.”

“Okay,
okay.” he says, puffing out his chest. “I get it, Lara. I do. Just … had to
make sure.”

“Can
you find out more about the financial documents they are talking about?”

Another
piece clicks in my brain.

I
recall my last flashback, the one when I first snooped inside
Jax’s
office and found the files. I remember making sure to
find and print the financial documents.

Dumping
the rest of the papers on the floor, I fan them out, thumbing through them all.
Finally, I see a computer printout and hold it up. It seems I highlighted an
entry.

From
ten years ago.

It
shows money from Rewind’s account being transferred to a private bank.
According to my notes in the margin, the account number was linked to an
offshore account. My writing is frenzied, sporadic, and I can tell I was
excited, but how did I link that account number to my dad?

Maybe
I don't need the answer. Maybe the police can do it for me. It's time to bundle
up the documents and take them there. But what about Molly?

If
I can make a copy, maybe I can do both—give a copy to the kidnapper and the
originals to the police? I need to get to a copy machine fast. Plus, there is
still the little issue of the flash drive in my pocket.

Argh.
I need to get Molly and her locket, but how am I going to keep the flash drive
away from the kidnappers? How?

Of
course, however I do this, I’ll most likely be exposed, but at least my dad
will be able to appeal his conviction. Hopefully, Molly will be released, and
those guys who were on my trail and wanted me dead, with any luck, will go away
once I’m under police protection. No matter what happens to me, at least the
truth will be known and everything will be set right; at least as right as I
can make it. I put everything back into my bag and swing it over my shoulder.

“Rick
…”

He
holds his hands up. “Don’t say anything. Let’s get you where you need to go.”

Before
we can get down the hall, the doorbell rings, followed by door-rattling
knocking. Rick’s parents’ bedroom lights up down the hall. He shoves me into
the linen closet and follows suit, closing it shut behind us. In the tight
space, my back pushes up against a shelf that smells like vanilla lavender,
while my front is dangerously close to Rick. The scent of his aftershave makes
me want to touch him even worse. We are so close I can practically feel his
heartbeat and I can definitely see a vein throbbing in his neck.

In
the hall, footsteps rush toward the front door and whomever is pounding on it.

“You
have any damn idea what time it is?” says the gruff, recently awoken voice of
Rick’s father. I picture the burly man with his arms crossed.

“Looking
for Lara Crane Montgomery. Is she here?”

I
recognize the voice from the YMCA. How did they track me down? My heart leaps
wildly, wedged in my throat, and I can’t swallow as the ringing in my ears
intensifies. I shake my head at Rick, begging him to stay quiet.

“Lara?
Lara moved away from here a long time ago. Rick hasn’t been friends with her in
years.”

“We
have reason to believe she’s been in contact with him. If we could take a look

around—”

“You’ll
do no such damn thing. I don’t see no badges or warrants, and unless you’re the
police, you have no right to come in here or be looking for that girl.”

“We
need to return her to the hospital. She’s a sick girl.”

My
eyes squeeze shut. Part of me still can’t accept this, can’t believe it. A
tremor starts to form in my arms, but Rick quells it by squeezing my hands in
his. I see compassion and fear in his eyes. Neither of us is sure what’s about
to happen .

“I
saw the horrible stuff going on with her sister on the news. Still doesn’t
change the fact we haven’t seen her in years, and you’re not getting in this
house. Now, before I call the cops—”

“We’re
leaving.”

The
man huffs, and not a second later, the door slams shut, rattling the knocker
and echoing vibrations through the apartment. Inside me though, the vibration
can’t be quelled. Waves of relief flow through me, and I take a deep, calming
breath.

Rick
too relaxes his shoulders, but his hands still hold mine. We wait to hear that
his dad has gone back to bed, and then we sneak out of the closet and race as
quiet as mice back to his bedroom.

While
he quietly latches the door and dims the lights, I glance outside and see some
men loitering near a van. A glowing cigarette ember drifts into one of their
hands. With the use of some old bird-watching binoculars, I can see they are
all dressed in black, wearing fine watches, and have tattoos on their hands,
except for one guy who also has one on the back of his neck. He’s tall, bald,
and bears a striking resemblance to Mr. Clean.

These
men look tough. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so much fear. I have no idea how
I’m going to get out without being seen.

Their
tattoos seem familiar. I try to think where I might have seen them before, but
the deeper I think, the more my headache intensifies. I realize I don’t
remember, but Lara—the old one I am slowly merging into, does.