Persistence of Vision: Interchron, #1

By Liesel K. Hill

What if a man with strange eyes asked you to save the future?

 

Maggie Harper's life is fairly mundane…until a bizarre incident of time loss in Vegas, followed by the creepiest thug she's ever seen breaking into her home and nearly killing her. Can the two be related?

 

She doesn't recognize the man who saves her. Yet for some reason, Marcus strikes an achingly familiar cord in her chest. He then proceeds to give her an explanation so bizarre, she's sure he's insane.

 

That is, until he catapults her forward in time, into the aftermath of a future apocalypse. A dystopian dictator has forced most of the population into collective hives. Individuals have been hunted to the verge of extinction. The few remaining freedom fighters conduct a rebellion while in hiding, fearing assimilation into the collectives, which rob an individual of their uniqueness.

 

Marcus is part of a team of individuals fighting the oppressive collectives. Maggie was part of this group—and Marcus's heart—once too, but thanks to the collective, her memories of it have been eradicated.

 

Only Maggie holds the key to freeing the humanity from the collective enslavement, but it's buried somewhere in those vanished memories. If she can't fill in the blanks and help the team bring down the collectives, humanity may become mediocre slaves to a dictator forever.

 

If you enjoy dystopian worlds, epic romance and visceral fights for survival, pick up this award-winning page turner!

Winner of the League of Utah Writers' prestigious Silver Quill Award, 2013.

 

"Helps us see what we might become…"

"Simply. Stunning. I couldn't put it down."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liesel Hill
• Release date: Jan 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781536500646

Book preview

Chapter 1: A Void in the Crowd

WHEN SHE FIRST SAW him, she thought he must be stoned. Why else would he be staring at a brick wall?

Cursing because she was already late meeting Jonah and the trek was taking so long—she could swear she’d been passing Caesar’s Palace for half an hour—Maggie tried to swallow, but it was like trying to push a golf ball through a pinhole lined with sandpaper. She longed for water—even hot and fetid would do—but the size of the crowds, packed curb to casino and bursting, prevented her from going any faster. Then, up ahead, she caught sight of a man standing perfectly still.

She was headed for him, and a strange, prickling sensation in her stomach had crept up right before she saw him. Maggie told herself that the heat and lack of nourishment was making her hallucinate, but she tried to study the man as she inched along the crowded sidewalk.

August in Vegas meant ungodly temperatures, but somehow this was the peak of the tourist season. Then again, she was here too. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was secured at the nape of her neck, but did little to cool her.

As she moved forward, packed cheek by jowl with hundreds of strangers and praying she didn’t trip—it could mean death by an army of gum-covered shoes—she reminded herself that she was not, in fact, suffocating. Focusing on the motionless man kept her mind off her parched throat. And her looming luncheon.

As she neared where he stood, Maggie saw that a triangular void had opened up around him. The walking tourists made up the sides of the chasm, giving it a bizarre, transitory look. The man stood at the far apex of it. He was tall and dark haired, but that was all she could tell with two hundred tourists in her way.

The sight struck her as odd. The sea of people around her was an ocean unto itself—rolling and pulsating such that trying to stop a single part of it would be like trying to immobilize a single swell of the Pacific; it couldn’t be done. But then there was this man, standing statue-still at the tip of the gap. If Maggie tried to stop like that, she’d be trampled, and that was not overstating the matter. She wondered how he’d managed it.

Suddenly Maggie was in the gap with him. It shouldn’t have surprised her, as she’d been heading right for it, but she was startled to find herself in the space. A moment before, she’d been shoulder to shoulder with twenty strangers. In the natural momentum of the throng, the space should have become occupied. Yet when Maggie reached it, she found herself alone in the vast, triangular void—just her and the stoned guy.

It was as if there was police tape around this particular space—tape she couldn’t see but everyone else could. They walked around it, paying the gap no heed while she pioneered into an alien land, alone and confused.

She’d have thought that a few inches of personal space would help her breathe easier, but it didn’t. She felt more hot and oppressed than ever. And now, she felt...exposed. A moment ago she’d wanted nothing more than to get away from the Vegas throng; now she just wanted to lose herself in the anonymity of the crowd.

Maggie forced herself to move forward. The man was standing marble still, and she was anxious about practically brushing against him as she passed, but she had to in order to leave the gap and rejoin the throng. Finally she came level with the man and put her foot forward to step into the crowd.

Something gripped her arm, anchoring her to the spot. She became aware of breath on her neck—a presence near her. She turned her head slowly, afraid of what she’d find. Her heart pounded in her ears. She couldn’t catch her breath, but she didn’t know why. Trying not to tremble in the thick humidity, she raised her eyes.

He was staring at her, his face inches from hers. It was not at all what she expected. Whatever this man was, he was not stoned. His eyes were a strange color. Hazel, she supposed, but so hazel that they looked almost...amber. His pupils were golden with large flecks of green, brown, and blue. A scar shaped like an upside-down question mark covered the left side of his face, the round part making a semi-circle over his cheek, the straight part reaching from half an inch below his eyelashes to above his eyebrow.

From the side he looked lean, but being beside him, she was surprised to see how broad his shoulders were—how deeply muscled his arms. His hand gripped her so firmly that she knew she would be unable to get away unless he released her. He was not hurting her, though.

He stood there, looking into her eyes for long seconds, his expression a mixture of intensity and sadness. She felt like he was seeing into the depths of her soul. Her heart pounded, and then, for some reason, her eyes watered.

Suddenly Maggie thought she recognized him. Where a moment ago she had been sure he was a stranger, she was now certain she’d seen him before. She ran through reams of memories. A high school classmate? An ex-boyfriend? No, she would remember that. She couldn’t think of when they’d met and then was confident again that they never had. Perhaps it was déjà vu or just a mistake. But she felt a stirring deep in the pit of her stomach. Chills vibrated up and down her spine, but she had no idea why or what the source was.

As she gazed up at him, his brow furrowed; then his face crumpled completely.

His mouth opened, and his lips moved, but no sound came out. He was mouthing her name, silently screaming it.

"Maggie!"

Maggie’s breath caught. How did he know her name?

He winced, shutting his eyes, and the act of reopening them released a single tear down his cheek.

Shaking herself, Maggie got her bearings enough to jerk her arm away. When she did, she nearly fell, for he immediately let go, and her own momentum nearly knocked her over.

She tore her gaze from his and took a purposeful stride out of the unnatural aperture and into the crowd. Suddenly, she felt forlorn.

She was being idiotic; this was just a bizarre encounter with a man she’d never met. Maybe he was stoned after all. She had just imagined the rest. That was it. Yes, perhaps she was lucky to have escaped with her life. The street was so busy he might have kidnapped her, mugged her, or done any number of other things, and no one would have noticed. Taking a deep breath, she tried to clear her head as she once again forced her feet to match the momentum of the throng.

Then something occurred to her. The strange man had grabbed her arm, kept her there, and looked at her in an intimate manner, but she had not thought to call out for help. But then, she had not felt fear. She’d felt almost...protected. She shrugged uncomfortably at the thought.

The entire interaction had been surreal. It had only taken sixty seconds, but when she’d entered the gap, everything slowed down. It felt like longer than a minute.

Holding tight to her purse and her phone, she used the natural momentum of her stride to swing around and walk backward.

The amber-eyed stranger was still staring at her in a most...familiar way. By now there were hundreds of people between them. From this far away, his hooded eyes looked red, and she thought she saw...no, she must be mistaken. Were those more tears sliding down his cheeks? Perhaps it was just sweat, or the heat was making her imagine things.

A moment later with the sweep of the crowd, he was gone.

AFTER WHAT SEEMED LIKE hours, Maggie reached the little bar. Jonah was leaning against the side of the squat building, looking down the street for her. Not until she was almost in front of him did he actually see her, so thick was the foot traffic.

Hey, Maggs. He straightened. There you are.

I told you it would take a while.

Well, you’re here now. He reached out and took her hand. Vicki’s waiting. Let’s go.

Maggie groaned, and Jonah turned back toward her, arching an eyebrow.

Hey. You promised you’d be nice.

I have nothing against your girlfriend, Jonah, but as your sister I call dibs on your mercy.

What are you talking about?

I’m gonna pass out if I don’t get to sit for five minutes. She nodded toward the bar. Could we grab a drink?

Jonah looked doubtful then glanced back the way he’d come.

Vicki isn’t going anywhere, and we won’t get a table in the restaurant for a while, right? Please?

He smiled. I never could say no to those puppy-dog eyes. Taking her hand, Jonah led her toward the door.

The bar was crowded, but they walked in at the right time just as three stools opened up. They took two of them and ordered mixed drinks. As the bar tender disappeared down the counter, Maggie swiveled around on her stool to look over the room. She found herself wondering about the people in it. Every person in Vegas was there for a different reason. Maggie’s was boring. She wondered if anyone else’s was better.

What’s going on in that head of yours? Jonah called.

The crowd was speaking in normal voices, but a crowd this large meant Jonah had to shout to be heard. He’d turned to survey the room as well. Just then their drinks arrived.

How was the Luxor exhibit?

Great.

What?

Great!

Jonah grinned at her, and they didn’t talk anymore. They could catch up in the quiet of the restaurant when they’d finished here.

Sipping her drink, Maggie let her head fall back, savoring the calming of her adrenaline and the chance to be off her feet, along with the comforting feeling of her big brother beside her.

She tried not to think about the long walk to the restaurant or making small talk with Vicki or...

Maggie was gasping, clawing for the surface. She couldn’t breathe. Everything was blackness.

A flash of purple light. A rock formation. Brown boots walking across a room at eye level. Two large hands covering hers. A hand with an ugly black burn on the back. A woman standing in front of a broken lighthouse. Blood on her hands. A whisper of a voice. What was he saying? Gasping, clawing for air.

But she was breathing, so she wasn’t drowning, but still clawing, trying to get out of something or away from something. Or someone. With a final gasp, she clawed her way to consciousness.

Her eyes shot open. There was a white wall in front of her, and she couldn’t move her body. It was like she wasn’t entirely awake: she was totally aware but couldn’t move a muscle. It wouldn’t be so terrifying if she could remember anything before this moment. Where was she? How had she gotten here?

Her heart pounded in her chest so hard it was painful. It was unnatural for her pulse to be going that fast when she had just been unconscious. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her throat was raw.

Feeling gradually returned to her body. When she could turn her head, she looked to the right. She was in a hotel room, one she didn’t recognize. It certainly wasn’t hers. Hers had grey curtains, and these were a deep, velvet red.

She was lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. The wall she’d seen upon waking was actually the ceiling.

She sat up slowly, fighting a terrifying sense of vertigo all the way, and looked around. Her feet were pointed toward a window where the drapes were partially closed. It was dark outside. A single bedside lamp lit the sparsely furnished room. It might have been cozy if it weren’t so...creepy. Putting a hand to her forehead, which was pounding almost as painfully as her chest, she tried to remember.

A flash of purple light. A rock formation. Brown boots walking across a room at eye level. Two large hands covering hers. A hand with an ugly black burn on it. A woman standing in front of a broken lighthouse. Blood on her hands. A whisper of a voice. Gasping, clawing for air.

Were those memories or just dreams? She couldn’t tell. Whatever those flashes meant, a sickening feeling flooded through her when she thought of them. They meant something dreadful, something harmful.

Jonah! Where was Jonah? Swiveling her head around, which she instantly regretted, she saw him. He was lying on the ground parallel to her.

His eyes were wide open. She wanted to scream, sure he was dead, but didn’t have control of her vocal chords. Then she saw his chest moving. Relief flooded her. When she summoned the strength to toss a lead-filled hand to his neck, his pulse was racing faster than hers.

Not knowing what it meant but afraid that such unnatural cardiovascular activity meant a medical crisis, she looked for a phone. There was one up on the desk. Dragging her body up beside the bed, she fumbled for the receiver and clumsily dialed 911.

MAGGIE SAT IN A SMALL room in some precinct of the LVPD. She had no idea what the station number was or even what part of the city they were in.

The police responded promptly but had been unable to wake Jonah. The medic leaning over his gurney on the drive to the hospital smacked his head on the ceiling and cursed when Jonah suddenly sat up.

They had been checked at the emergency room for injuries, including sexual assault. There was no sign of abuse. All their credit cards, cash, IDs, and other important items were intact. As far as anyone could tell, neither Maggie nor Jonah had been robbed or assaulted.

Maggie heard the doctor quietly asking the nurse to run a tox screen on both her and Jonah. Maggie was officially offended, but she supposed it made sense. Their questions about what substances the siblings had recently consumed weren’t particularly subtle either, but Maggie was too shaken to be indignant.

The examinations did yield some strange things. On the back of Maggie’s left hand, three straight lines reached from the base of her index finger down toward her thumb, as though a miniature Wolverine had dragged three tiny knives over her hand, leaving a two-inch scratch. Maggie didn’t have that mark before she blacked out; she was sure of it. The strange thing was that it was not a red mark or scabbed over blood. It was white scar tissue.

Jonah found something similar. Apparently there was a line, paper-thin in width, but almost eight inches long on his inner thigh. It was a disturbing mark, but he said it didn’t hurt. If the doctor hadn’t asked about it, Jonah wouldn’t even have noticed it.

Like Maggie’s, it looked like an old injury. Maggie didn’t want to think about what kind of injury would leave a mark like that on Jonah’s leg. How could either of them have injuries they didn’t remember that were more than a few hours old?

After getting the okay from the doctors, they were sent to the police station where they waited to speak to a detective. They’d been over what they knew several times, trying to make the pieces fit. Neither of them remembered anything after being in the bar. Maggie asked careful questions, but from what she could tell, Jonah had not experienced the same flashes she had. She did not mention them to him.

They’d lost twelve hours.

It had been between 12:30 and 1:00 in the afternoon when they got to the bar. Maggie had placed the call to 911 at 1:32 a.m. the next morning. Twelve hours of their lives unaccounted for.

Maggie felt violated. What if something terrible had happened and she didn’t even remember? Even Jonah had a haunted look about him. That scared her most of all; nothing ever bothered Jonah.

After hours of waiting under the lights in what could only be described as an interrogation room from the twenties, the door opened to admit the detective. The noise startled Maggie, and she jumped.

The detective put his hands up in a calming gesture. I didn’t mean to scare you. He was middle-aged with streaks of gray in his thinning hair and thick mustache. His smile was compassionate.

We’ve put a freeze on all your accounts, but no one has tried to use them. Your tox reports came back negative, and the doctors tell us there is no evidence of physical or sexual assault. What that amounts to...is that we have no idea.

Maggie’s heart fell. What?

I’m sorry. We can’t find anything that would have caused this. It’s not a known drug, not a reaction to food or drink, not the cause of an obvious injury. There’s simply nothing.

It wasn’t food or drink? Jonah asked. He was sounding more like himself again, confident and able.

Not that we can tell.

But it must’ve been the drinks.

The detective leaned forward. How do you mean, Mr. Harper?

We made an idiotic, tourist mistake. We both ordered mixed drinks but didn’t watch them be mixed. The bartender could easily have slipped something into them. I was sure that was it.

The detective leaned back, looking disappointed. Of course we’ll fully investigate the bar and its owner, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up, if I were you.

Why in the world not? Maggie burst out. The drinks. Of course! She hadn’t thought of that, but Jonah was right. It must have been the drinks.

Because—the detective’s gaze fell on her—tourist traps often can’t be traced. The two of you ought to count yourselves lucky that the side effects aren’t worse.

So that’s it? Jonah asked after another brief silence. You have no idea, not even any theories, and we’re just supposed to go on our merry way and act like nothing happened?

The detective held up his hands in a calming gesture. Please, try to understand. We do have theories but no evidence. I know it feels violating to you, but we’ve done about all we can do here.

Maggie had a sinking feeling that she and Jonah might never know what had happened.

Thank you, Jonah murmured, I appreciate the truth. He sounded far away again, and Maggie wanted to cry.

I know you’ve both given your statements already—the detective shuffled through his papers—but I must ask. Is there anything else you remember? Even the smallest thing might be significant.

Jonah shook his head. Maggie thought about the flashes. They were fading. As time passed she was more and more certain they were just dreams. They were just fragments really and would be of no help. She opted not to mention them. They would do the detective no good. She’d seen nothing coherent, and the guy needed hard evidence, not delusional images.

Well then. The detective stood, and Maggie and Jonah followed suit. Why don’t the two of you get some sleep before heading home? I’ll be in touch, and if you remember anything at all, please don’t hesitate.

Chapter 2: Flash From the Past

One Year Later

MAGGIE AWOKE WITH A start. The sun was streaming through her bedroom window and onto her face. She told herself firmly that it was the sunlight that had awakened her and not unpleasant dreams. As she sat up, her dreams faded beyond memory.

As long as she couldn’t remember, it couldn’t bother her. Swinging her feet over the side of the bed, she stretched. Glancing at her bedside clock, she found that it was nearly eight. A bit earlier than she had planned to rise on her day off, but as long as she was awake, she might as well get up.

Pushing aside the voice that said the real reason she didn’t want to sleep more was because she was afraid of her dreams, Maggie stood, put on a robe, and went downstairs. She decided that she would make some hot chocolate and watch the sun rise.

Just as the detective predicted, nothing turned up. A full investigation into the bar revealed that the owners were clean and the establishment honest. It could only be the individual worker, and he or she had covered their tracks.

Of course, that was assuming it was the drinks that had put them out. Perhaps it wasn’t, though neither Maggie nor Jonah had been able to think of what else it could have been.

Neither of them had suffered any perceivable ill effects—perceivable being the key word there—but Maggie couldn’t get over it. She ran everything she remembered over and over in her head, trying to come up with answers.

Since leaving Vegas, the flashes had returned again and again.

A flash of purple light. A rock formation. Brown boots walking across a room at eye level. A hand with an ugly back burn on the back. A woman standing in front of a broken lighthouse. Blood on her hands. A whisper of a voice. Gasping, clawing for air.

For weeks she woke up sweating, her heart racing, fear ringing through her core. The flashes never faded, though. Each time she dreamed them was as vivid as the last.

Each time she saw the images, the impression became stronger that she was trying to tell herself something. Something had happened to her and Jonah, and those flashes were connected to it in some way.

Eventually she stopped being afraid of what she saw. The flashes became her companions. As long as she had them, she felt like she had some hope of one day figuring it all out, of finding out what had really happened to her.

Five months after the incident, Maggie got up the courage to tell Jonah about the flashes. He had been angry with her.

But it’s not like it was evidence, Jonah! They were just flashes, completely incoherent hallucinations.

How do you know that? he’d challenged. They might have been memories.

Maggie had frowned. She’d never considered the possibility that they’d been more than fever dreams. Do you think I ought to call Detective Jones? she asked.

Jonah sighed and dropped his face into his hands. When he looked back up, his eyes were haggard. Do what you want, Maggs, but do it now and move on. I don’t want to keep dredging this up.

He’d walked away, leaving Maggie feeling hurt. It was the only bitter conversation they’d ever had. She went home and cried herself to sleep.

It was more than just the dreams, though. Maggie felt an overwhelming sense of loss. At first, she thought it was just the feeling of violation, of being victimized, but as time went on, she realized that it was something else. She could not shake the feeling that she had lost something, some major, vital part of who she was.

And she didn’t even know what it was.

That was the most frustrating part: to feel she’d lost something she yearned to have back so much that it hurt and not be able to define it. Whatever happened in Vegas, it was more than just passing out from some tourist trap. Much more.

Still, Jonah had the right of it. Maggie had dreamed the flashes so many times; they were forever seared into her memory. Perhaps she’d never know what happened, but making herself ill over it was not doing any good. She needed to live her life.

Since making that decision, things had been easier.

It was twelve months to the day since the time loss had occurred, and today was Maggie’s day off. It was Friday, and her catering business would be slow. One of the great things about being the boss was that you could take time off whenever you wanted.

After sipping her hot chocolate and watching the sunrise for half an hour, Maggie decided to do her errands first. She had a whole list of things, but if she did all of them this morning, she could have the afternoon to herself. Mentally, she ran through her list as she washed out her cup and placed it in the dishwasher: order some supplies for the business—see, she’d be working a little bit—pick up some things for the party tonight (Michaela had given her a list); go get her nails done; fill up the tank, as the price of gas had gone down several cents in the past few days, and they were predicting it would be back up by Sunday; groceries; dry cleaning...

MAGGIE RETURNED HOME roughly three hours after leaving for the supermarket.

Had she closed the blinds last night? She hadn’t done it before leaving this morning. Shrugging, she redoubled her efforts to get the door open.

She heard the door close behind her as she lowered the bag to the couch but thought nothing of it. Just the breeze pulling it shut.

Then she saw it. The front of the house faced east, and the sun had not yet reached its zenith. Even with the blinds closed, muted light coming in around their edges cast a pale shadow onto the wall above the couch. She could see another shadow beside hers coming up from behind.

Spinning on the ball of her foot, she had no time to react to the huge man striding toward her. He fashioned his hand into a long, hard chopping tool. Fingers straight out but held together, he swept his hand in a large, controlled arc and hit her in the throat.

It felt like all the air had been sucked from her lungs. She couldn’t scream; she couldn’t speak; she couldn’t breathe. Collapsing onto the couch, Maggie struggled to draw a breath of relief. She couldn’t. Panic sprouted within her.

Then fingers clinched around her neck. The man picked her up by the throat and slammed her into the wall beside the couch. Her face was an inch above his so that he was looking slightly up at her, but he was a good deal taller than she, and her feet dangled above the floor.

The man’s grip tightened around her neck. Then, for no discernable reason, he froze, eyebrows narrowing.

Is it you? His voice was harsh, as though he couldn’t clear his throat.

He had chin-length, greasy brown hair and white, sallow skin. A spider’s web was tattooed over his left eye, which held no emotion at all. His eyes were so dead she couldn’t discern their color.

Still holding her against the wall, the man turned to glance at the windows, as though someone might be spying through the closed blinds. His hair was shaved short in the back—it was only long on the sides—and on the back of his neck just below the hairline was an angry, red puncture mark. In his right ear he wore an earring with an X on it and a dot in the space directly below the X. She’d seen that symbol before but wasn’t sure where.

Maggie still couldn’t breathe. Darkness was stealing in from the corners of her vision. So this was it. This man, who had somehow entered her home, was going to kill her. She didn’t even know why or who he was. He seemed content to keep the pressure on her throat until she passed out—or died out. Her limbs felt heavy. Her vision was going. Everything seemed dim.

As she succumbed to the claustrophobic darkness, another man entered the room. There was something familiar about him. He started screaming something, but she couldn’t hear him. Perhaps her hearing was going along with her vision. But she could see his mouth. He was saying her name.

Then it hit her. Vegas. Just before she and Jonah lost time, she had seen that man. She had rarely thought of him since, but it had been such a bizarre encounter that his face had remained clearly etched in her memory. It didn’t matter now, though. The dimness turned to opaqueness, and awareness went with it. Then there was only darkness.

A flash of purple light. A rock formation. Brown boots walking across a room at eye level. A hand with a black burn on it. A woman standing in front of a broken lighthouse. Blood on her hands—were they her hands? A whisper of a voice. She could never quite make out his words.

Vegas. The spider web tattoo. A man in her house. A man in her house!

Maggie’s eyes snapped open. Awareness crashed in, and she lunged into a sitting position, gulping air. She was on the floor beside the couch. Her groceries were still situated on it. The man—not Spider Web Tat but Creepy Vegas Guy—was leaning over her.

She stared at him, wild-eyed and chest heaving, gulping air through a spontaneously healed throat.

He sat back in a crouch, but his eyes never left her. It was definitely him. There was no mistaking those strange amber eyes or the oddly shaped scar.

Not knowing what else to do under his direct stare, she decided to test her voice. I was sure he crushed my trachea.

His voice was solid and calm. He did.

A chill ran down her spine. Then her eyes saw past him to the lifeless body of Spider Web Tat. Maggie’s eyes slid warily back to the man crouching next to her. Creepy Vegas Guy might have just saved her life but that didn’t make him safe to be around.

As though reading her thoughts, the man smiled then extended his hand. I’m Marcus. How are you, Maggie?

Chapter 3: Breaking Away

SHE GLANCED WARILY at his outstretched hand but didn’t take it. After a moment, it dropped. Silence stretched between them, and she realized he was waiting for her to speak.

Who are you?

That’s a long story. We don’t have time to go over all of it. This man shouldn’t be here. The fact that he is—that he got here first—means we should move quickly. I need you to trust—

I saw you in Vegas. Are you the reason my brother and I lost time?

His eyes narrowed. "You saw me in Vegas? What... He searched her face, as though the explanation should be written there. What do you mean?"

"Oh come on. You must remember. You grabbed my arm and looked at me like you knew me. Are you telling me it’s a coincidence that half an hour later my brother and I blacked out and lost twelve hours of our lives?"

Until the words were out of her mouth, Maggie never considered that her encounter with him and her time loss might be related.

He was silent for a long time, and she looked away from his penetrating gaze.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was soft, controlled. Of course I remember, Maggie. But you shouldn’t.

Her head snapped up. What?

Tell me everything you remember about Vegas. Specifically, what you remember about me.

Maggie threw up her hands. Why was he suddenly the one asking the questions? "Who are you?"

He heaved a sigh. His eyes wandered briefly around the room, resting on the dead man. It seemed to jolt him back to his original purpose.

My name is Marcus, Maggie.

She opened her mouth to shout again, but he raised his hands.

I can’t tell you much more than that right now. We have to go. It’s not safe here. I know you have no idea who I am, but I need you to trust me. I need you to come with me.

I’m not going anywhere until you explain yourself. And him. She nodded toward the dead man.

Don’t be stubborn, Maggie—

Then don’t be ludicrous! You come into my house a year after doing heaven-knows-what to me and my brother in Vegas. You kill a man in my parlor, and now you think I’ll go with you? I have no reason to trust you. I’m calling the police.

She swung around onto her knees. Before she could pull herself to her feet, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her upward. His face was inches from hers, as it had been in Vegas, and she could feel his hot breath on her forehead. His unmistakable eyes—a rainbow of hazel—held anger. His vice-like grip said he wasn’t planning on letting go.

You dated a man named Jared several years ago, almost married him. When he dumped you, he took things you had told him—personal things you’d never told anyone else—and threw them in your face. He tore you to shreds emotionally. Since then, you haven’t had any serious relationships. You find ways to sabotage them, because you’re afraid of being hurt that deeply again.

Maggie’s lower jaw slowly cranked away from her upper one as he spoke, her eyes widening in sync with her mouth. When he finished, she snapped her mouth shut, blinking rapidly.

How do you know that? What are you, stalking me or something?

He smiled at her. It seemed genuine.

Even a stalker couldn’t have that kind of insight into your soul. I know because you told me.

"I did not—"

He raised a hand. I know you don’t remember telling me, but you did. If you’ve never told anyone, how else could I know? You said you had no reason to trust me. Consider this reason: in another place, another lifetime, you knew and trusted me enough to tell me your darkest secrets. Trust me now.

When she didn’t reply, he went on, his eyes begging her. Is there any other explanation for me knowing that?

She had no answer. She’d never admitted what he’d said, not even to herself. She’d never fully formed the thoughts. Yet, he was right. That was exactly what had happened and what she had been doing since. How could he know that about her?

Maggie, if you can’t trust me, I understand. But trust yourself, even if it’s another self you can’t remember. More men like this one are coming soon. I need to get you somewhere safe.

Maggie looked at Marcus then at the dead man on the floor. He had saved her life and healed a serious injury. She took a deep breath and asked herself how she felt.

She reached over and took her purse from the couch. Ever since Vegas she’d carried a small .25 caliber handgun. If he tried anything, she would be able