The Time Collector Read online

  “My God,” he whispered. Roan couldn’t begin to process what he was seeing. These seemingly random ooparts actually had perfect symmetry and coherency between them as they jumped through time.

  The ooparts, like the crop circles, were a mathematical equation. Roan couldn’t help but see the connection—one of the ooparts was a ring that belonged to the man who had married geometry and algebra and created a coordinate system to locate any object in space, including on a map.

  René Descartes.

  René Descartes also believed geometry was the language of the universe.

  Roan stared at the computer screen with wonder. The image formed by the ooparts’ coordinates looked like one giant crop circle imprinted on the Earth.

  27. THE SONG

  MELICENT WOKE UP early and stayed in bed, snuggling under the down comforter to read the chapter in Jocelyn’s book on ancient silk weavers. In Japan, ancient weavers believed a thousand stories could exist in a single thread. Threads were woven together and sometimes broke, but they always remained. In that way too, so did the past remain forever a part of the tapestry of life.

  Jocelyn’s words somehow brought comfort to her. Even though her possessions and the physical links to her past were gone, her memories would always be a part of her. They were the threads of her life.

  Melicent held the book to her chest and closed her eyes, feeling her first goodbye to the house she grew up in riding on the exhale of her breath.

  She brought the book with her downstairs after she had showered and changed into jeans and a cable-knit sweater. She found Roan and Jocelyn at the table, watching news from the States on CNN.

  Jocelyn stood up with a brisk “Good morning. Coffee and toast?” She was already heading to the kitchen to get it.

  “Please.” Melicent sat down at the table.

  Roan looked preoccupied and asked in an absent tone, “Did you sleep well?”

  “Very.” In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so soundly.

  Jocelyn returned with coffee and a thick piece of brioche bread with butter and set out jams and marmalade.

  Melicent signaled to the book on the table. “Are you sure it’s okay if I take it with me?”

  “Of course.” Jocelyn was flattered but still dubious. “Are you sure you want to read it? It might be a bit hard to get through.” Roan snorted at that and his mother playfully whacked his arm. Jocelyn informed her, “He has yet to read one of my books.”

  Melicent’s mouth dropped open. She looked at Roan. “You’ve never read her work?”

  Jocelyn didn’t look the least bit bothered. “I’m afraid it would only frustrate him.”

  Roan smiled. “My mother is long-winded.”

  Jocelyn laughed out loud at that. It made her look years younger, and Melicent caught a glimpse of Jocelyn from years before.

  Reading the book seemed to be an ongoing joke between them. Jocelyn turned to Melicent. “You don’t have to either. I have thick skin.”

  “No, I’d like to. I’m … beginning to have a deeper appreciation for history.” Melicent left it at that.

  Jocelyn gave Melicent a prim look, obviously thinking her newfound appreciation for history was because of Roan.

  Maybe Roan was to thank. If he had never come to Los Angeles, Melicent wouldn’t know anyone who shared her ability, much less what that ability looked like if it were nurtured over time.

  She sneaked a peek at him from under her lashes as she ate. He was watching the TV, looking troubled by the news.

  The reporter was saying, “Tonight in New York City, we’re outside a residential building across the street from the Metropolitan Museum of Art where a fire broke out hours ago on the fifteenth floor.”

  Jocelyn put her hand to her mouth. “My word.”

  The footage showed the corner windows on the building’s fifteenth floor engulfed in flames. The blaze shot up like a pinnacle to the midnight sky. London was five hours ahead of New York, so it was still the middle of the night in the States. The street had erupted in pandemonium with firefighters on the scene and police cordoning off the area. The reporter said, “As you can see, firefighters are hard at work containing the flames. We’ve received no word yet if there are any victims.”

  Melicent’s stomach turned. All the memories of her mother’s home came flooding back along with the sheer terror and panic of that night. For a moment she thought she might be sick.

  After the news report ended, Roan became even more quiet. By the time they were gathering their things to head back to London to catch their flight, he’d retreated so much into his head, he barely said goodbye to his mother.

  Jocelyn wrung her hands together with worry. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right? There’s nothing more I can do to help?” She must have sensed that there was a lot Roan wasn’t telling her. Melicent was beginning to feel the same way.

  Roan shook his head with a distracted air. “I’ll be fine. I’ll call you soon,” he promised and reminded her, “Get a new phone.”

  Jocelyn saluted him with a smile, unable to hide the fact that she was bereft he was leaving. “Check in with me tomorrow, please? I want to know the minute you hear from Stuart.”

  Melicent came forward and gave her a big hug, surprising all three of them with her warmth. But Jocelyn needed a hug, a proper hug, the kind that made her feel better for having gotten it.

  Jocelyn stiffened in response like a cat, then she relaxed and returned the gesture. “It was lovely to meet you.” She had a softer look in her eyes.

  “You too, Dr. Matthis,” Melicent said, but Roan’s mother insisted she call her Jocelyn. Melicent nodded and patted her purse. “Thanks for the book.”

  * * *

  Now she and Roan were on the plane, well over the Atlantic, and Melicent was reading while Roan ignored her. He’d barely said two words since they’d taken off. They might as well have been on separate flights.

  The plane sat twelve. Two rows of six seats on each side of the aisle faced each other like two long sofas. Roan was sitting across from her, several seats down, as though they were total strangers. The flight was ten hours—ten torturous hours. They’d taken off at two P.M. and were arriving at six P.M., though it’d feel like midnight when they landed. Doing the math made Melicent’s head hurt. She wasn’t sure if she was still jetlagged or about to be.

  When Roan stood up to stretch, he surprised her by joking, “Maybe if you keep reading, the book will perk up.”

  Melicent cocked an eyebrow at him. “So you’re talking now?”

  He sighed in regret, sounding like he meant it. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I have a lot on my mind.” He sat down next to her but didn’t say anything for a long moment. He stared at the floor. Then he said, “I didn’t want to say anything in front of my mom. But the fire that happened in Manhattan on the news … I know who lives there.” He turned to look at her. “It’s a psychometrist in Stuart’s group.”

  Melicent’s heart dropped.

  “She’s the person I called to warn. I’ve been to her place before.”

  “Oh my God.” Tears welled in Melicent’s eyes and she blinked them back. These people, whoever they were, had come after this woman too.

  Roan ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. “I want you to stay with me at my place—you and Parker. I’ll have Holly bring him from the hotel in the morning. It’s the safest place for you right now.” His words wrapped around her like a warm embrace. She nodded in acceptance. “Good,” he said, relieved. “We’ll get through this,” he vowed solemnly.

  They stared into each other’s eyes. A bundle of emotions were swimming inside her. Then he surprised her by tugging off his glove and brushing the hair away from her face in a tender caress. “About that special request you made last night.” He took off his other glove and his hands framed her face.

  His kiss was tender and full of promise. She pulled away, their lips still hovering near each other. She asked him t
he question that’d been on her mind. “Why didn’t you tell your mother I’m a psychometrist?”

  “Because I wanted her to like you,” he admitted with a smile. “She doesn’t approve of me using my ability.”

  Melicent made a silent Oh. She hadn’t considered that Roan cared what Jocelyn thought of her. The thought pleased her, and she held on to it. She’d take as much normalcy as she could get right now.

  Roan slipped his gloves back on and stood up. “After you went to sleep last night I made an incredible discovery.” He brought over Stuart’s laptop. “I plugged in a new set of coordinates, where the ooparts originated from, and came up with this.”

  When he showed her the computer screen with the new version of the map, Melicent gasped. It was the most beautiful creation she’d ever seen, an exquisite work of art. “The ooparts made this?” She could barely speak. What in the world were they looking at?

  “Your idea last night led me to it.” Roan was just as riveted. “It’s like a mathematical key.”

  “Unbelievable,” she whispered. The map looked like a beautiful mandala.

  “The group’s theory was correct. The ooparts aren’t random.”

  “Then what are they?” She looked to him. “How did they make this?”

  Roan shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  She could tell he was determined to find out. They looked at the map for a long time in silence, marveling at its perfection, and awe filled her. She couldn’t begin to process this discovery. Where did they go from here?

  “Can I touch the oopart you have?” She felt like she could handle the key. When he’d shown it to her at the airport, she’d been too shell-shocked by the fire to want to touch it.

  Hesitation crossed his face. “You don’t want to, trust me. There’s a memory that’d be hard to see.”

  Melicent swallowed her disappointment but nodded, letting go of her request. After what happened in New Orleans, she wasn’t ready to experience such despair again.

  Roan closed the laptop and put it aside. “Why don’t we study this more later? I was up all night with it.” He went to the galley, poured them each a glass of white wine in an elegant stemless glass, and brought over a charcuterie board that had been prepared with assorted cheeses, baguette slices, fig jam, and Marcona almonds.

  She took a sip of the crisp sauvignon blanc and selected a piece of aged Gouda to nibble on while her thoughts returned to the key. “I do want to read the key’s imprints at some point,” she told him. She couldn’t be afraid of finding negative memories forever. “How do you get past the bad imprints to find the others?” She’d seen his notes for the Lakota collection, how he was able to unravel multiple imprints in an object from various times. She didn’t understand how he did it.

  He considered her question before answering. “It’s like layers in an ocean. You have to swim through each memory with your intention. Your mind becomes fluid, moving around the moments. You decide how fast you swim, how far, in what direction, and when to stay.… Take the wineglass you’re holding.” He nodded to the glass in her hand. “There are countless imprints embedded there. Try and focus until you can see the last three people who held the glass before you.”

  Melicent looked at the glass in her hand with surprise.

  “Do a mudra to prepare, whatever one feels the most empowering. Deepen your breath. And remember you are in control as you encounter the memories. Sometimes it can be hard to push past a negative one. It just takes focus.”

  “Is that how you find people for the Heirloom Foundation? Through the water method?”

  He chuckled. “Yes, something like that.” He took her hand and kissed it. She was coming to love when he did. Roan leaned back, closing his eyes. “I need to take a nap if that’s all right.”

  Melicent could tell he was exhausted. She watched him fall asleep and the guarded look on his face slowly melted away. She studied his gloves, which were back on his hands, and wondered when he started wearing them and at what age. He was so experienced at reading imprints and he’d already taught her so much. She mentally sifted through the small collection of mudras that she’d learned and settled on the first one Roan had shown her, the Shakti mudra.

  She went to put down her wine, almost knocking the glass, but then caught it before it spilled and grimaced. Her clumsiness was the result of being out of step with herself. Maybe she’d been out of step for a long time. Her mother used to tell her that cynicism was born from a fearful heart and, looking back, Melicent had not wanted to acknowledge her extraordinary ability. She’d stifled her gift. It’d taken her mother getting sick to wake her up, to force her to embrace her inner power and reexamine who she was. Now she was living in a world where not only was the past touchable, but it was trying to communicate through these strange artifacts. She could either run from this new world or embrace her ability and try to understand it. That started one imprint at a time.

  Expelling a deep breath, she settled her hands into the mudra and closed her eyes.

  When she was ready she picked up her wineglass and tried to read its history.

  The first imprint came quickly: A lead singer from a band she didn’t know was on tour in Europe and the man had last used the glass to hold his red wine. He spent most of the flight composing a song for his next album with his acoustic guitar.

  As much as Melicent tried she couldn’t get past the singer’s imprint to anyone else’s. After several attempts she felt the start of a headache and gave up. Roan made it sound so much easier than it actually was.

  She finished off her wine in a salute to the artist and made a mental note to buy the band’s latest album when she was back in the States. The song was quite good. She closed her eyes, softly humming its tune.

  She must have dozed off because when she opened her eyes her ears were popping as the plane made its descent.

  Outside the plane window the lights of New Orleans were glittering jewels, and the cityscape crested against the Mississippi like a moon. Its nickname “the Crescent City” had never seemed more appropriate.

  When the plane touched down the account manager of the charter company overseeing their flight was waiting to greet them along with a customs official to check their passports and welcome them back.

  “Was the trip business or pleasure?” the customs official asked them.

  Roan tilted his head toward Melicent with a wink. “Introducing her to my mother.”

  Melicent would have laughed out loud at the audacity of the statement if it wasn’t technically true.

  They got into Roan’s car and headed downtown. Roan seemed recharged after the flight. Neither of them said a word during the twenty-minute drive. Melicent stared out the window, feeling the magic of New Orleans come to greet her. Tonight she was going to see Roan’s home.

  But her anticipation peaked and plummeted when he pulled up to a warehouse that looked like it was straight out of a slasher film.

  This couldn’t be where he lived.

  Roan punched a code into his cell phone and one of the warehouse’s bay doors opened and he pulled in. Melicent got out of the car, mystified, and he led her inside.

  “Where are we?” she asked. Her voice had a hollow ring as it bounced off the metal walls.

  He gave her a smile. “I live here. In the back.”

  She’d imagined him living in a house similar to the one on Magazine Street, not an industrial storeroom. “How long have you lived here?”

  “About ten years.” He led her down a long corridor toward the back of the building that ended with a nondescript door.

  Ten years in a windowless warehouse was a long time. She couldn’t fathom why he would choose to live in such a place—until Roan opened his front door and said, “House, lights on.”

  It was like stepping into another world, from the dramatic gray stone walls made of enormous slate slabs jigsawed together to the vaulted ceilings and stained-glass panels that were lit from behind like windows. All the rooms w
ere divided by freestanding walls made of opaque glass tiles, and a sculptured metal staircase led to a hallway upstairs. The innovative design aesthetic took her breath away.

  She couldn’t believe something so exquisite could exist inside such an ugly box. Melicent turned to him, speechless. She could tell he was waiting for her reaction and managed to say, “It’s gorgeous.”

  He smiled. “I don’t have many visitors.”

  It made her wonder who Roan’s friends were. So far she had only met Roan’s partner. His relationship with Holly seemed to run deep, and Melicent couldn’t help but wonder at their history together. It wasn’t that she was jealous, but she did feel a twinge of insecurity. The two were close and Holly hadn’t come across as the warmest person. In fact, Holly had been downright horrified that Roan had brought her to New Orleans. Now Melicent was practically moving in. Granted the situation wasn’t normal.

  Melicent would make a concerted effort to get to know her. Maybe eventually Miss Southern Living would warm up.

  Roan set their things down and took off his gloves, touching the flowers in the room. Satisfied by whatever he did or didn’t feel, he turned to her with a smile. “Would you like a tour?”

  She nodded, staring at his hands and realizing that he wasn’t going to put his gloves back on. But then why would he? He was home. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

  She followed him through the living room. Behind the first glass wall was a wide-open kitchen with gleaming stainless-steel appliances and long stretches of marble countertop and an island in the center.

  Roan showed her the list of numbers on the refrigerator door. “There’s a grocery and a restaurant delivery service I have an account with, so whatever you need, just order it. And feel free to use anything you’d like to cook. I won’t mind.”

  Roan had made the offer innocently. Still her cheeks colored with embarrassment. Did he know from reading the imprint of the snow globe that her ex-boyfriend had been a chef? Walt had hated her using anything in the kitchen. Their biggest fight had been over a hand mixer. They’d broken up during the time she made the rock garden. Maybe Roan had seen everything, but the idea that he knew intimate details of her life didn’t bother her like it had before.