14

Corey wished he could time travel through red lights. In New York City they felt like eternities. Corey was racing up the steps of the Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church only moments after he’d left, but it felt like it had been hours. Behind him, Eddie the cabdriver shouted, “Good luck!”

It was 8:31.

Taso was standing at the bottom of the stoop. “I attempted to phone you,” he said softly. “Mrs. Vlechos arrived shortly after you left. But she told me she did not know you—”

“Thanks!” Corey blurted, barging through the front door.

“But—young man—” Taso sputtered.

Vlechos. That was the family name before it was changed to Fletcher. Corey raced through the front foyer, where a single slim, lit white candle stood in the sand pit near the icon. He stepped into the church. It was eerily quiet. A woman sat hunched at the end of a pew to his right. She was wearing a windbreaker, her head covered with a faded scarf. “Maria!” he shouted.

As he ran around the line of pews, he could barely breathe. What was he supposed to say? How did someone approach a grandmother he never knew? “Listen, I know you’re not going to believe this . . . ,” he began.

She looked up slowly. Beneath the scarf, her eyes were watery and gray, her face wrinkled. She gave him a bewildered smile.

Corey sprang back. “You’re not Maria, are you?”

“Martha,” she said.

“My boy, she’s not here!” Taso’s voice called out behind him.

Corey spun around to see the gray-haired man walking down the aisle. “Where is she?” Corey blurted. “You said she came here! You said you’d keep her—”

“I couldn’t physically restrain her, my child. When I mentioned what you’d said, she grew agitated. She said she needed to get to work. She couldn’t have gotten far.” Taso turned and pointed to the right. “You may catch up to her if you hurry.”

The words spilled out of Corey’s mouth so fast they sounded like another language. “Please, when I go, clear the church. You leave, too. Go uptown while you can. Something very bad is going to happen. I can’t explain. Just shut down and go. I know you think I’m crazy, but trust me!”

He couldn’t wait for an answer. It was a church, so he said a silent prayer as he ran outside, jumped down the steps, and headed right toward Washington Street. She would be walking to the tower. There was only one route. He turned right again, north toward the wide plaza.

8:36.

The planes were in the air, on the way from Boston. The terrorists were in the pilots’ seats. People had already died. Corey felt a wave of nausea.

There.

She was waiting for the light on Liberty Street.

He had never seen her in his life, but he knew. The hair matched the photos he had seen. Something about the posture, too. She was nearly as tall as he was, slender and dressed in elegant brown shoes, a gray skirt, and a light waist-length jacket.

“Mariaaaaa!”

She turned, looking around curiously. This time there were no surprises, no mistaken identity. The face was hers. But the sidewalk was narrow and jammed with people. She wasn’t seeing Corey through the crowd.

Corey leaped off the curb and into the street, where the path would be faster. “Over here!”

The blare of a horn blotted out his cry. Behind him, tires screeched. Corey whirled around. A yellow cab bore down on him, trying to swerve out of the way. Its fender clipped him behind the knee, and Corey felt himself rising into the air. He thudded down on the cab’s hood and rolled off, back onto the street.

He landed hard. For a moment he saw black. He leaped to his feet, gasping for air. People were already gathering around. The impact had made him let go of the passport and schedule, and he reached to scoop them up.

But another hand grabbed them first. “Are you all right?” a voice asked.

Surrounded by a growing crowd, standing tall and square-shouldered, was Maria Fletcher.

He grabbed her arm. He couldn’t help himself. Her wrist was warm.