I break off as Bandit comes back into the room. His hands, predictably, are empty. “Did you find the papers?” I ask brightly, knowing full well that they’re nothing but ash at the bottom of the furnace.

He shakes his head. “Where could they have gone? I know I’m distracted, but this is ridiculous.”

I scoop up the backpack and link my arm through his, guiding him to the door. “I’m sure they’ll turn up. Were they important?” I ask with an impressively straight face.

“I guess not.” He turns and surveys the office once more. “Last week, Charlie asked me for instructions on backing up his research on his hard drive and the cloud, even though he’s never been interested before.” He looks at me as though I’m from another planet. Another time. “It’s like he knew this day was coming.”

I stumble on nothing. Backed up his research? Last week?

My brain explodes with keyboard symbols, and I’ve lost all semblance of speech. Doesn’t matter. The Voice articulates my thoughts for me.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” she says. “The Virus didn’t disappear from my future. You’re not off the hook yet. You still have to kill someone.”

Chapter 29

Chapter 29

An hour later, I stare into the distorted “mirror” in a gas station bathroom. In fact, it’s not a mirror at all but a piece of warped metal with a faintly reflective surface. Still, I can glimpse the lingering shock in my eyes. I can make out the slump of my shoulders.

Did Charlie know? About me? About the mission? He must. He backed up his research last week. When he’s never been interested before. The timing, once again, is too coincidental.

The Voice said there are several missions occurring simultaneously. Does the Virus Maker also have voices traveling to the past? Did one of them warn Charlie? What does this mean? Who am I up against?

I take a deep breath, and my sneaker squeaks against the concrete floor, sticky with unidentifiable liquids and darkened with dubious stains.

If only I had someone to discuss these questions with—someone smart and insightful, like Bandit. But not only might he be a future mass murderer, but we haven’t even spoken for the last forty-five miles. Me, lost in my thoughts. Him, in his grief. The only reason we stopped was because the Tahoe needed gas. Where our silence before was soft and comforting, like a beloved bathrobe, it now resembles a scratchy turtleneck sweater.

Electricity skates across my consciousness. I gulp, instantly on edge. Two visits in a single afternoon? This can’t be a positive sign.

“I’ve got bad news,” the Voice announces.

My stomach sinks. “Of course you do. Not once have you ever come to me with anything good.”