Time Passage: A Time Travel Novel, page 1
TIME PASSAGE
A Time Travel Romance Novel
Elyse Douglas
Broadback Books
Copyright © 2023 Elyse Douglas
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 9798396150164
Cover design by: Carter Banks
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
For Vito and Mary and those train adventures.
“Time does not change us. It just unfolds us.”
~Max Frisch
TIME PASSAGE
CHAPTER 1
On the full moon night of Wednesday, November 9, 2022, I killed him. There was no doubt he was dead. No breath. No movement. His face the color of white paper. Eyes open, staring at nothing. I didn’t check his pulse. Stayed away from him. I hit him with the heavy, ornate gold clock. It’s an antique, I think, and it cost a fortune, not that it would have mattered to him. He was bleeding from his right temple, where I hit him.
My mind whirled, my pulse jumped, my throat tightened. We’d argued, and it had turned violent. We had argued before, but never like this. He grabbed my hair and jerked me around, slapping me. His ugly words were still fresh in my ears.
“I should have ditched you months ago,” he shouted. “I gave you everything. I made you! If it wasn’t for me, you’d never have made it in real estate! You’d be nothing but a loser waitress, waiting on tables at some pathetic excuse for a restaurant.”
“Let me go, Cliff! Stop it!”
“I’ll kill you!” he roared, slapping me again.
I’d broken free, gasping for air, stumbling backwards.
He staggered about, whiskey glass in hand, his face twisted in anger. “How many times, Cindy? How many times have you been with him? How many times have you been with Kevin? Stop lying and tell me!”
“I wasn’t with him! I’ve never been with him. Never! I’ve told you that a hundred times! You’re drunk, and when you’re drunk, you get crazy and think everybody’s out to get you,” I said, my voice shaky.
“I’ll kill you!” he shouted again, hurling his whiskey glass at me. I screamed and ducked as the glass sailed over my head and shattered against the wall. And then he came at me—lunged at me like an animal—before I could run. Drunk or not, he had rage, adrenaline and a strong body, and he shoved me down on the sofa. He fell on top of me, slapping my face and cursing me.
I kicked and screamed, sure he was going to kill me, when his strong hands squeezed my throat, angry breath puffing from his clenched teeth. I strained for breath, a hot white light of panic exploding in my head. In a desperate reflex, I kneed him in the balls, and he jerked up, writhing in agony, his hands releasing my neck. As he howled in pain, I twisted and kicked and shoved him off, and he tumbled onto the white carpet with a thump.
With a pounding heart, I sprang up and stumbled, white dots swimming across my eyes. I swayed, staggered ahead, swayed again and braced myself against the black marble mantel, feeling a raw, burning throat and the metallic taste of blood.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him spring up, wobble, then come for me, his face flamed, his eyes wild. My blood ran cold. I knew he was going to kill me.
I don’t remember seeing that antique clock or reaching for it. I do remember swinging it at him as his big hands reached for me. I remember the dull thud of the clock as it thumped against his head. I remember I’d never felt so scared or so strong as the adrenaline pumped through me.
And then, there was a ringing silence, and there he was, bleeding on the white carpet, his body still, his flat eyes empty, staring at nothing.
I was sick. I felt darkness encircling me, like an evil presence, like death itself. The clock slid from my hand and bounced on the carpet near Cliff’s head. My breath came out in shallow puffs, and I was frozen to the spot. I didn’t know what to do. My mind locked up, and I was in a motionless trance. Should I call the police? Should I call my friend Alina? Should I call 911?
I lowered my spooked eyes on him, feeling the urge to vomit. I fought it. Was he dead? Yeah… He was dead, and I had killed him.
And then I didn’t do anything I should have done. I’d been in trouble with the cops before, when I was a teenager. I’d hung out with a bad crowd. I’d stolen things. I’d done jail time. I’d been called everything from a cheap whore, to a hoodie thief, to a gold-digging bitch.
I hated jail and swore I’d never go back, no matter what. The cops scared me. The lawyers didn’t care. So, I had a record. Would anybody believe me if I told them I’d killed the famous billionaire Clifton Prince in self-defense? No, of course not.
I felt my stomach pitch as I made a dash for the door, grabbing my long, sealskin coat, my gloves, and my purse. Hurrying down the burgundy and silver carpeted hallway, I finger combed my hair, which must have looked a mess. I was sure my face looked a mess.
Downstairs in the spacious, gleaming lobby, my smile was forced, my steps measured, not rushed, as the pleasant doormen, Pedro, held the glass doors for me and asked if I’d be back soon.
Just before exiting, I lowered my gaze, in case my face was bruised, or my eyes swollen. I didn’t know how I looked.
“Oh, yes, I’ll be back in a half hour or so,” I said, as casually and as brightly as my trembling voice could utter.
I fled the place, wearing my coat, black slacks, a fuchsia turtleneck sweater, and pumps. It was a chilly November night, with scattered, moving clouds, about forty-five degrees. What was the date? November 9, 2022.
I was scared and nauseous, and my head felt like it was on fire. That’s what fear and horror do to you when you’ve done the unthinkable; when you’ve done the thing you never thought possible; the one terrible thing you thought you’d never do: kill another human being.
CHAPTER 2
I walked aimlessly downtown from East 63rd Street, with no direction in mind, because I didn’t have a mind. It was a muddled mess of chaos.
Cliff Prince was dead. He was thirty-five years old, and rich, with a fine, handsome face, and roguish black eyes that I’d immediately found attractive when we met, two years ago, at a gallery opening cocktail party in the Chelsea district of New York City. I was one of the servers passing around hors d’oeuvres.
Was Cliff a millionaire? Billionaire? He’d inherited much of his money from his family, and then he’d made more in technology, buying and selling companies. I didn’t really know what all that meant. That’s what he told me. I didn’t care.
And, yes, just after I’d killed him, my whole life flashed before me in seconds. I saw myself as a thirteen-year old girl, my drunken, low-life father slapping me around, my frail mother trying to fight for me but ending up on the floor, and my younger sister, Casey, fighting for me and then slapped to the floor and curled into a ball as he kicked her. And then he left us. And then he was killed in some back alley knife fight in Tulsa. Good riddance.
When I was twenty, Mom died from a swollen liver and pneumonia.
But I’m not looking for pity. Pity means nothing. Pity is for losers, and despite all that has happened, I have never felt like a loser, and I never intend to.
I did well in school—straight A’s mostly—mostly to prove to the world that I wasn’t a low-life dumbshit, who lived in a banged-up trailer, in a not-so-prosperous trailer park in Florida.
I’d excelled in English and math, and since I was eight, I’d kept a journal, writing about people and family events—or to be more accurate, family disasters. I was interested in people and their reactions and their words and feelings, but as I got older, I wasn’t so interested in keeping a record of my day-to-day emotions and the insanity of my life. I avoided anything that was painful.
Once, after doing jailtime, I was forced to see a head-shrink instead of the usual social worker. She had a lavish, well-designed office, with lots of family pictures in silver frames on her desk and many diplomas conspicuously displayed on the walls. She even had a nifty, shiny Italian espresso machine.
She said that, as a kid, I’d coped by escaping into myself and hiding my feelings. She said I’d witnessed the feelings and emotions of others instead. “Avoidance and lashing out irrationally,” she’d said, in a wise, calm voice.
But I couldn’t stop staring at her gray fitted suit and her diamond ring, the diamond the size of an ice cube. Okay. Whatever. Maybe I was jealous of her normal life, her education and good job, and her fat diamond. Maybe I wanted to meet a rich guy and get a fat, sparkling diamond ring, too. I was pretty enough. I knew that.
My younger sister, Casey, was my best friend. She’d always tried to protect me from Dad and from the world, but she’d failed. Dad was strong. Casey wasn’t. Dad laughed whenever Casey took swings at him. Dad just gave her a shove, and she went tumbling.
Casey had been a frail child, but she had the heart of a lioness. And then she was killed in a car crash when she was sixteen and I was eighteen. I’m not sure I’ve ever recovered from that. Casey deserved so much better. She deserved kindness and a chance at life, and I deserved to have my little sister, whom
As I said already, I was pretty, and as I write this, I still am. Like most things in life, it has been a blessing and a curse. The boys flirted, my male teachers flirted, and older men gave me a lusty smile and a wink. I fought off most men, kissed a few in high school, and dated one of my high school teachers on the sly. He was twenty-six and unmarried. He was actually a nice guy, and I learned a lot from him. I learned good manners, listened to good music, and read good books; and I learned that not all men are jerks.
He broke my heart when he married someone else. I thought he was going to marry me. That one set me back. I was prettier than his wife, but she must have had something I didn’t, but I didn’t know what that was.
Snow flurries drifted down, and the world seemed peaceful, and as they dusted the tops of cars and my shoulders, the anxiety of my mind cooled. I kept walking downtown, unable to connect any dots or fit together the scattered pieces of my life. I was just broken, inside and out, my mind burning with misery. I didn’t know what to do or where to go.
I had a beautiful, two-bedroom condo on West Broadway and Chambers Street, and I had plenty of my own money. I was a successful real estate agent, thanks to Cliff’s influence and contacts, as he always liked to throw in my face. But I had worked hard, learned the business from the ground up, and I had proven myself. Clients liked me and they recommended me to their friends and family. I was proud of that. It was the only real thing in my life I was proud of.
But all that was flushed down the toilet now. Everything I’d worked for and built up would come crashing down as soon as the cops found Cliff’s body.
It wouldn’t be long before Cliff’s unanswered cellphone and texts would raise suspicion, and building security would call, knock on the suite door, and then enter and find him dead.
They’d find him lying on that luxurious carpet with the antique clock next to his head, next to that sleek, silver-gray Italian sofa that cost a fortune. But everything in that extravagant, elegant room cost a fortune, in that high-rise, three-bedroom suite on the sixty-second floor, overlooking lower Manhattan, the Hudson River and the distant New Jersey hills.
It’s pathetic, really. It’s an old story. Poor Girl meets Billionaire. Billionaire thinks Poor Girl is a hot-looking waitress who, like every other young, attractive woman in New York, wants to be a model or an actress. I said to myself, “He’s handsome. He’s eyeing me. He’s rich because everyone in that room is rich. If I play my flirtation just right, he might even buy me a big, fat diamond ring. Awesome, girl. Go for it!”
Cliff Prince offered me a new and exciting life, and I didn’t hesitate, did I? I took it.
The wail of a police siren snapped me from my thoughts. Two police cars raced by, their dome lights swirling. And just like that, I was back in the present, recalling the horror of what I’d done. Fear burned like fire.
I had to form a plan, and fast, or I’d be in jail for a very long time.
CHAPTER 3
Okay, so it was a simple plan. Hail a cab and get to The Moynihan Train Hall, across the street from Penn Station, and take an Amtrak to somewhere. Anywhere. If Cliff’s body was found soon, the airports were too dangerous, and I was too shaky to rent a car and drive. Besides, they would be able to trace the car. If I took the train, I could change trains en route as many times as I needed, and then I could vanish, or at least have the chance to.
Then I had a hopeful thought. I knew a guy, a shady guy in Chicago. I had always known shady guys. Anyway, if I could get to him, I knew he’d hide me and give me a new identity. As I said, he was shady, with good, shady connections. I’d met his sister at sixteen when I was in juvenile detention for shoplifting. We’d hit it off and stayed in touch. I’d call her and ask for her brother’s number.
Three cabs streamed by. One was free, so I flagged it down, climbed in and told the driver where I was going.
“They say we’re going to get a few inches of this snow,” he said, in some accent.
I stayed quiet, my heart still racing, and I was perspiring, even though I was also shivering. I was in shock, no doubt about it.
“And it’s before Thanksgiving,” the driver continued. “Early… Way too early for snow. What about that, huh? And they say the globe is warming up. What the hell does anybody know about anything anymore? You know what I’m saying? Everybody’s shootin’ off their big mouths, and they don’t know nothin’ about nothin’.”
I breathed in impatience. I did not want to talk to the man. “Yeah, right.”
Easing back in my seat, I buckled my seatbelt. The driver kept blabbering on. I didn’t answer, and he didn’t seem to notice, obviously enjoying the sound of his own voice. My mind kept turning back to Cliff.
Cliff Prince was rich, handsome, and arrogant, but not what you’d call nice. I’m not the only one who thought so. He had few real friends, a lot of enemies, a brother who despised him, and a sister who wouldn’t speak to him. But despite all that, he didn’t deserve to die.
He wasn’t the worst man I’d dated or lived with, but he did get aggressive when he drank too much. That’s when the monster burst out, and then no one wanted to be around him, not his friends or business partners. I’d usually managed to avoid him when he got drunk because he didn’t do it often. But this time, a business deal had gone bad, and Cliff had hit the whiskey hard.
I should have locked myself in my room or just left and returned to my condo until the storm passed. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. I didn’t because Cliff didn’t want me to. He’d wanted to talk, and then I knew why. He thought I was sleeping with one of his buddies, Kevin Tyler. I wasn’t. I didn’t do that. For all my faults, I was faithful when I committed myself to a relationship.
Smart girl I was. I should have left him the last time he slapped me, shoved me down on the bed, and ripped off my top. Yeah, I guess you could say he did get violent before, but I’d let it go. I’d managed to fight him off and lock myself in the bathroom until he left. Yes, that’s when I should have got the hell out of there. I should have left him.
But I didn’t leave him because he had money, and he spent money on me, and he gave me money, and he kept sending real estate clients my way. I know, I know. I was a mercenary girl, and now I was paying for it.
So, yeah, he gave me money when we started dating. I won’t say how much, but for a poor girl who came from a shabby trailer park, let me just say it made me feel good, and powerful, and free. What a laugh. Free. What a way to learn that money is good to have, but it isn’t everything, and it can get you in big trouble. And it can be an addiction. I didn’t love Cliff, and I should have left him, but I liked what money could buy. I was a fool.
I left the cab on Eighth Avenue and hurried toward the train station. Inside the huge, lofty train hall, with its soaring skylights and steel cathedral ceiling, I glanced about, already feeling watched. It was quiet, with stores and malls on the sides, an escalator in the center leading down to the tracks, and ticket windows on the left.
The bored ticket agent said the Lakeshore Limited traveled to Chicago, via Albany, and it was scheduled to leave in forty-five minutes—a lifetime, but I’d been lucky. I didn’t have the cash, which wasn’t good, so I used a credit card to pay for a one-way trip to Chicago, feeling tension in my shoulders and in my gut, feeling a headache coming on. Now, all I had to do was stay calm and not to let the terror take me over. I was already growing paranoid that everyone was looking at me, accusing me of murder.
My attention was drawn to a homeless woman who sat on a side bench near a closed deli. There were five or six shopping bags stuffed with items gathered around her, like a protective shield. She saw me and smiled. It was a kind smile, not a pleading, suffering one. The long coat she was wrapped in was too large for her frame, her gray hair was plastered to her head, and her thin face and sagging eyelids gave off a kind of weary contentment. But there was something else about the woman that startled me: she reminded me of my mother. Her sad eyes. Her stooped shoulders. The slight tilt of her head.
