Sarah lingered after the others had gone, shooting me a questioning look before finally gliding out the door.

“Yes, Mr. Larkin?” Mr. Ruskovich asked as soon as we were alone. He’d been shuffling papers, clearly aware that I was stalling. He put them aside now, leaning on his desk. “What can I do for you?”

I was nervous about asking him, but I couldn’t stop wondering about the binoculars. Trip, Tannis, and Sarah were all more worried about who’d killed Nat’s dad. It’s not that I wasn’t, but to me the binoculars felt bigger. Definitely more personal. I’d been thinking about them more and more, feeling them like a constant thrumming pulse in my drawer. My very own telltale heart. It occurred to me that maybe Mr. Ruskovich could help. Maybe there was a science behind them and what they did. Maybe he could tell me if what I saw really was—could be—my future.

“Natalie Cleary said something I wanted to ask you about. In confidence,” I added.

“Of course.”

“She thinks she saw her dad’s murder before it happened.”

Mr. Ruskovich eyebrows shot up. “A premonition?”

“Or a vision.” I hesitated, dying to tell him the whole story. I trusted Mr. Ruskovich. He was my favorite teacher. But I didn’t really know him. And what if he wanted to see the binoculars?

“So your question is . . .”

“Whether that’s possible,” I said, deciding to play it safe. “Is there a scientific basis for seeing the future?”

Mr. Ruskovich frowned. “I’m not sure I can tell you that, Riley.”

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“Oh.”

He read my disappointment. “You thought I’d have a better answer.”

I nodded. “Last year when we were talking about time machines and how matter moves . . .” I shrugged. “I guess they’re not really related.”

“Ahhh, I see where you’re going with it.” Mr. Ruskovich nodded. “That’s reasonable. Well, as far as science knows today, time travel is impossible. Matter cannot travel through the space-time continuum. But can we somehow have knowledge of future events? That’s a different discussion, and yes, I’d say it’s possible.”

“How?”

“‘Why?’ is probably the better question,” he corrected. “Some things can move through the space-time continuum.”

“Like?”

“Energy,” Mr. Ruskovich said immediately. “And I suppose it’s possible that energy from the future could travel through time.”

“Could you make a device that made that happen?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Channeled that energy?”

I nodded.

Mr. Ruskovich thought about it, then shook his head slowly. “I suppose so,” he said, “but I can’t really imagine how. It seems very far-fetched.” He cocked his head. “Natalie Cleary told you she’d seen her dad’s murder in some kind of device?”

“No,” I said, backpedaling quickly. “Not that. I was just thinking out loud. About premonitions and the science behind it and whether, you know, there were any practical applications or . . . anything.” I finished lamely.

“Uh-huh.” Mr. Ruskovich checked the clock, then stood, collecting his papers. “I don’t know about practical applications, but I think the lesson science fiction writers have been teaching us for generations is that knowing the future is a dangerous thing.” He looked at me. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah,” I said, thinking that not many good things had happened since we’d looked. “I guess I would.”

***

I wasn’t two steps out the door before Sarah fell into step beside me. I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Why’d you ask him about that?” she said.

I felt my face turning red. I should have known by the way she’d watched me that she’d known I was up to something. I never felt like I could put anything past her. “It’s been bugging me,” I said, not looking at her. Hoping I sounded nonchalant. Knowing I didn’t.

“But we went back,” she pursued. “And you guys didn’t see anything.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sarah stopped, grabbing my arm so I’d have to stop too. I felt her hand, warm on my biceps, and resisted the urge to flex. I gazed down at her, so close I could see faint freckles across her nose. “Riley.”

“Sarah.”

She studied me an extra second. “You saw something the other night, didn’t you?”

It was barely a question, and I thought about lying but could tell she already knew. Her eyes were so intense, like she could read every blink, every muscle twitch. I nodded.

“I thought so,” she said. “That’s why I—”

Suddenly her phone interrupted, blaring. Sexy and I Know It. Trip. He’d programmed it himself. She held up a finger.

“Hey,” she said into it. “I’m on my way.” I picked at a loose string on my backpack, trying not to listen to the rest of her conversation but perfectly able to fill in Trip’s side. I watched her face soften and smile, and felt a stab of completely irrational jealousy. Then her eyes flicked to me. “Hang on,” she told the phone, pulling it away from her ear. “Nat wanted to know if you took anything out of her things from the trailer.”

“Of course not.”

“Where’s the vase? The crystal one that was her mom’s?”

“It wasn’t there,” I told Sarah. “I looked on the living room shelf where Nat said it would be. And around the rest of the house . . .” Until I felt like I might puke. “Nada,” I finished.

She conveyed that to Trip. After she hung up, Sarah told me, “Nat said it should have been there.”

“Maybe her dad gave it away.” Pawned it, was really what I was thinking.

“No. Nat remembers seeing it that night when she got home from the Dash party.”

“Maybe the cops have it.”

Sarah shook her head. “John checked with his dad, and they don’t.”

We looked at each other, and finally I asked, “So what does that mean?”

“Exactly what you think,” Sarah said. “That either it’s there and you didn’t see it . . .”

“Or someone took it between when Nat got home that night and when we were there,” I concluded.

The phone rang again. Trip. “I’m coming!” she said, not waiting for a response from him before hanging up. “Sorry,” Sarah said. “I told him I’d meet him before his math test. He needs help.”




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