He crouched and put his face almost down to floor level, and shone his beam into the four-inch gap beneath the lowest shelves. Nothing of interest there, either: a wadded tissue paper, a crushed foam cup, a nickel resting in a layer of dust much thicker than what lay on the shelves above. Whatever mop-up crew had been assigned to empty this place, after the accident in 1989, they clearly hadn’t worried about any white glove inspection happening afterward.

Dryden stood again, turning in place, taking it all in. The walls. The ceiling. The doorway, where Lauren still stood, tense and rigid.

Dryden completed the turn and let the flashlight fall to his side, the beam lighting up the floor in the middle of the room. His gaze settled on that surface—

—and froze on it.

As did Danica’s. She came up beside him, staring down.

A huge, rust-colored stain covered the concrete in front of them.

Dryden was struck by the feeling he’d had a moment before: that the lost memory was chasing them down the tunnel outside. Accelerating now. Surging like water through a conduit. Like blood through an artery. Like—

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

JULY 1989

The room behind the fourth door had metal shelves along the walls, and random supplies stacked all over them. Sam guided Lauren in through the doorway; Dani was already inside, still crying, pawing at her eyes and trying to get control. Her gaze locked onto Pierce as he came through the doorway behind Sam and Lauren.

“We’re twelve years old,” Dani said. Her voice was breaking, as before. “Don’t do this. Please just don’t do this.”

Sam could feel his own eyes burning. The room started to swim. He blinked a few times and got it clear again for the moment.

Only Lauren seemed unaffected. Unaware, even. She wandered to the shelves along the side wall, took hold of one and leaned against it for balance. She touched the bruise on her head, winced in pain, and sat down hard on the concrete.

Pierce shoved Sam by the shoulder, sending him stumbling across the room to where Dani stood. Sam turned and faced the man, side by side with Dani, and took hold of her hand. She interlaced her fingers with his and squeezed.

Pierce stood there, still looking rattled, still holding the gun on them.

“We thought we were saving your life,” Sam said. “At the barn. We thought we were risking ours. We did that for you.”

The words seemed to have a real effect on Pierce. Through the anxiety of his expression, something like consideration showed—it flickered there for a second or two, then disappeared.

“Quit talking,” Pierce said. He swallowed with difficulty. He took a deep breath and let it out. And again. To Sam, he looked like someone psyching himself up to jump off a high-dive board.