March 27, 2012

Connor Temple was not a safe man when he was on edge, but through some indescribable miracle—Lester decided beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was nothing less than a godsend—Jess had discovered just the thing to keep him from hysteria. Instead of pacing through the ARC, dragging the morale of the entire team down through the floor, Connor was poring over the newfound journal of Professor Nick Cutter.

He didn't mind that much of it they'd already discovered; obviously, if Cutter had known or guessed anything spectacular, he'd kept it in his head. None of that mattered, because they were the words of his beloved mentor, whom the entire ARC had revered—though he'd been somewhat deified in the eyes of Connor.

Not to mention that the words stole him away from reality for a moment, to a realm of clear logic, where it didn't matter—not any of it. He pushed a tear from the corner of his eye quickly.

As he pushed through the pages, one selection caught his eye. It was loose from the spine, as if it had been torn violently, and then replaced with care. He read the first few sentences, unable to stifle his curiosity:

"Claudia Brown is gone. I doubt there's a heart in the world not set on breaking mine. Time is certainly my infernally vowed foe; he has stolen from me my beautiful Abby, corrupted my Helen, and now murdered—"

Connor broke off, returning to one phrase. "Stolen his beautiful Abby," he murmured thoughtfully. So the professor had his own Abby in his own time; she had been spirited away by time as well? But if that had been before Helen…how could time have taken her? Quickly he shook his head. "Poetic, weren't you, Cutter?" he said with a smile, turning back a few more pages. "Descendant of Shakespeare—no, Shakespeare's kids died before he had grandkids. Although—he was a bit of a ladies' man, wasn't he, Shakespeare?" He couldn't contain a snort. "That's you, Cutter, Shakespeare had a little one-nighter with a Scottish barmaid—"

As he laughed, suddenly the book slipped from his hands. He cursed, scrambling to collect the pages and pictures that had scattered. They were all across the floor; it was almost an encyclopedia of Cutter, and now it was in shambles. Jess chose that moment to enter the room.

"Oh—that's one way to look at the pages, isn't it?"

Connor rolled his eyes. "If you're done laughing, help me with these, please. I don't want to lose anything in this."

Jess pouted, getting on her knees beside Connor. "Fine," she said, mocking offense. "Trying to break the tension—you know, you're no fun when you're upset. I want to get your mind off things."

Connor gritted his teeth. Of course she just wanted to help, but a darker corner of his mind wanted him to suffer. He couldn't shake the idea that it was his fault; if he hadn't taken his eyes from Abby for that moment, she might not have run through…

"C—Connor?"

"Yeah, I know, be positive. I know you're just trying to—"

"Connor." He turned to meet her gaze; she was staring at a slip of photos from a photo booth with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"What is it?"

Jess shook her head. "I—I thought I'd seen everything. I thought…Connor, it's her."

"Who?"

She couldn't tear her eyes from the photograph, and Connor snatched it from her roughly. His throat clenched and he felt his heart drop. Peering out at him with bright, joyful eyes were two faces: a youthful, grinning Cutter and a bright-eyed Abby. From top to bottom they laughed out at him; her arms about his neck, his about her waist, miming secret agent poses, and landing kisses on one another's cheeks.

"Connor…this picture has to be at least fifteen years old."

"I think I know where Abby's gotten to."

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.