Mr. Blackwood isn’t expecting me today, because I rarely show up two consecutive days. I’m sure he won’t be too pleased about the surprise, but he’s going to have to deal with it. There won’t be any running away this time.

The door’s ajar when I arrive, which is more than a little odd. I peek inside cautiously, my eyes darting around the empty living room. Mr. Blackwood’s keys sit forgotten on the floor, his cane appearing to have fallen near the sofa. I veer toward the kitchen, an uneasy feeling spiking in my stomach.

“Hello? Mr. Blackwood?”

Silence, and the kitchen is just as empty as the living room.

I turn then head for the stairs but stop when I hear a muffled gag to my right. It’s coming from the bathroom, which I now happen to notice is shut. I inch closer. There’s a thin stream of light gleaming below the door.

“Mr. Blackwood?” I give a gentle rap.

Another gag, some coughing, a choking sound, a flush.

What in the—

The door bursts open, barely missing me. Mr. Blackwood stands before me, one hand leaning on the doorframe, as he wipes his mouth with his shirt sleeve. “I see you’re busy minding your own business again,” he grumbles, before brushing past me and settling into his usual spot on the sofa.

I ignore the jab, mostly because I’m about to be doing a lot more ‘minding my own business’ in a minute, and pop into the kitchen to fill up a tall glass of water. I make my way back to the living room, setting the drink in front of him and taking a seat.

“Are you sick?” I ask.

“What does it sound like to you, brainiac?”

“Will you stop being difficult for five seconds?”

He only grunts, but I’m satisfied when he takes a sip of the water.

“What’s going on with you?” I press.

“I’m an alcoholic, didn’t you hear? Sometimes I overdo it and throw up. It’s not the end of the world.”

I narrow my eyes, looking him over. He was already frail when I’d met him, but I notice now that, despite his tall frame, he’s practically swimming in his thin coat. The bones around his shoulders and knees protrude noticeably, and I wonder if he’s always been so slight. “You promise you’re okay?”

“What’s it matter to—”

“Jesus, Mr. Blackwood, just answer the question.”

He pauses, looking me over in much the same way I was just doing to him. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

I’m not sure how much I believe him, but I let out a breath and nod. All right. Now for the tough part. I straighten my spine, cross one leg over the other, and fold my hands over my knee. It’s go-time. “So, I have a few questions for you.”

“Not this again.”

“I’m not leaving until you answer me this time.”

“Looks like you’re moving in, then, doesn’t it?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

He squints, looks me up and down. Clearly trying to determine if I’m bluffing. I arch an eyebrow that tells him just how serious I am. He gives me another signature grunt. He’s really a man of few words.

I decide to come straight out with it. “It’s about the Hawkins boys.”

In a split second, a rush of tormented emotion crosses his face. And just as quickly, it disappears. “And what would you know about the Hawkins family?”

I haven’t yet decided how much to reveal, worried if I tell him about the dreams it might scare him off and I’d never get any answers. For now, I’ll test the waters. “The other day, I read an article about what happened to them, the year they died.”

“You did, did you? You always spend your weekends reading about people dying?”

I don’t bother to suppress my eye roll. “Yes, it’s an uplifting hobby I decided to pursue.”

“You’re weird.”

“You’re weirder.” Okay, we’re getting off topic. “So what’s your connection to them? Were you close?”

The rush of emotion I’d glimpsed earlier comes baring itself full force, wrinkles creasing and eyes flashing, and he’s pushing himself off the seat. “I’m not doing this, not today—” His words are mumbled and angry and warbled as he stumbles toward his cane. “Don’t need to talk about anything I don’t want—” He’s adjusting his weight on the cane, then aiming for the exit. “Goddamn nosy people everywhere I damn look—”

“Wait . . . Mr. Blackwood, stop.” I shoot up from the recliner just before he reaches the door, the words out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I had a dream!” He pauses, his hand on the handle. “I—I met them, the boys. Well, not exactly, but . . . I saw them. Little Tommy, huddled up in the corner while Enzo was beaten. Their monster of a father, what he did with his knife. The—the disgusting so-called tattoos.” Mr. Blackwood’s face has gone sheet white beneath all his scruff, and he appears to be frozen in place as he stares at me. I take a step toward him.

“How . . .” His voice is so quiet I have to step closer to hear him. “How could you possibly know about any of that. You weren’t even alive.”

“I told you. I started having dreams. I don’t know why, or how, or—”

“Don’t lie to me, dammit!” He’s trembling now, his skin turning red, and it has me backtracking my steps. “What else did she tell you?”

“What? Who?”

“Tallulah, of course! What else did she tell you?”

“What are you . . .” Wait. Grams? What did she have to do with any of this? Mr. Blackwood stumbles toward the sofa, sinking heavily into it, his eyes still fuming.

I’m slow, careful, as I make my way to him. I’ve never seen him like this before, and I certainly don’t know how to react. I find myself passing over the recliner I’d usually choose, and instead easing into the open spot on the sofa, to his right. I’m quiet for a moment, waiting patiently as his skin returns to its normal shade, his eyes simmer down, his fingers stop trembling quite so much.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t know it would upset you so much. But I swear Grams never said a thing. The dreams didn’t even start until recently, after I moved here.”

Whether he’s ignoring me or soaking in my words, I can’t tell, but he doesn’t speak for a long minute. Eventually, he reaches forward and downs the rest of the water. I’m surprised he hasn’t reached for his liquor yet, but I’m not going to be the one to mention it.

“I believe you,” he finally says.

“You do?” My entire body relaxes, shoulders slumping forward. It’s not until this very moment that I realize the power of hearing those words. It’s as though another person believing me somehow confirms I’m not just going crazy.

To my surprise, Mr. Blackwood chuckles. It’s tinged with bitterness, but still, it’s a definite chuckle. “Yes, I do. You mustn’t have read any of my books.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because maybe it takes a kook to believe a kook.”

I’m too intrigued to be offended right now. I have to see these books I keep hearing about. “Can I see your work?”

“Really, Lou, it stings you haven’t already bought a copy.”

“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t—” His expression stops me, the tiniest smirk lifting his lips, and I suppress another eye roll, shake my head. “Funny.”

He shrugs. “I thought so.” He starts to stand, but a wince takes over his face as he wobbles in place, one hand just barely holding him off the sofa.

“Stay there,” I insist, already standing and gently nudging him back down. “Tell me what to get.”

“I already told you I don’t need a damn caretaker.”

“Stop being so dramatic. I’m not a damn caretaker.” I roll my eyes. “I’m a friend asking what you need.” I know I snuck the ‘f word’ in there, but I kind of want to see how he’ll take it. Maybe if I say it enough, he’ll start to accept it as truth.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, and I smile. He’s so gonna be my friend. “Liquor cabinet. Two books.”

“Um—”

“You heard me.”

Okay. I make my way into the kitchen, pulling open the liquor cabinet for the first time ever. Sure enough, there are two books sitting on the lower shelf, far in the corner collecting dust. I grab them, wipe them off, and scan them over as I return to my spot beside Mr. Blackwood. “A New Dimension, and Other Unsolved Mysteries, by M. Blackwood,” I read aloud. I glance up at him, brows knitting together. “What’s the M. for?”

He grunts. “Matteo.”

“Really?” He doesn’t look like a Matteo. “I don’t know, that doesn’t really fit.”

“What are you, some kind of name expert? Do you want to open the books up or just talk nonsense all day?”

“Okay, okay.” He’s right, of course. I of all people should know how precious and limited time can be.

I begin with the first book, A New Dimension, setting it on my lap and peeling it open. The table of contents are first to greet me: Quantum Mechanics (Behavior of Subatomic Particles), Eternal Inflation, Space-time Taking Shape, Mathematical Universes, Parallel Universes & Cosmic Patches.

I glance up at Mr. Blackwood and playfully shove his knee. “Who knew you were the real brainiac here? Hiding in disguise.”

He says nothing. Returning my attention to the pages, I flip straight to the chapter that’s already caught my interest, Parallel Universes & Cosmic Patches. I scan through the lines, skimming over some since, who am I kidding, I don’t know the first thing about this stuff.

To agree with the parallel universe theory, one would need to elaborate on the idea that space-time is flat. . . . With the number of cosmic patches being infinite, there must be a repeat of particle arrangements in them . . . I pause, my brows drawing together as I peek up at Mr. Blackwood once more. He’s watching me, his attention focused, though giving nothing away in his expression. I carry on, jumping over a few more lines here and there. This would mean there are infinite cosmic patches identical to ours. . . . Let me be clear that the multiverse concept cannot technically be classified as a theory when it, in fact, stems from current theories such as quantum mechanics and string theory.

“Mr. Blackwood,” I start, my index finger holding my spot. “What is this?”

When he doesn’t reply, I skip several pages until I reach the closing section.

While the idea of an infinite number of parallel universes has long been considered a distinct scientific possibility, it will continue to be a matter of heated debate among physicists—as it should be. With our current proven concepts on the matter, room for interpretation is limitless, as is room for error. That being said, science and reality have long been on different wavelengths. If history has taught us anything, it is this: just because one theory has yet to be proven today, does not disqualify it from being an active truth—taking place before the very eyes we seek so desperately to prove them with.

I’m stunned into silence by the time I complete the next few pages, and I’m left wondering where all of this came about, and where he’s going with it. After a moment, I’m able to close my mouth, and the book, and find my voice. “How exactly does one go from being a private investigator to researching work like . . . this?”

At that, Mr. Blackwood slowly rises to his feet. He eyes the door, and I instinctively tense up, bracing to tackle. “No way. You are not escaping again.”

He rolls his eyes, an expression that looks particularly odd coming from him, and shakes his head. “Get up.”

“Why?” I ask, even as I oblige.

“Because . . .” He grabs the book I haven’t opened yet, then turns and wobbles toward the edge of the sofa, carefully lowering himself as he retrieves his cane once more. “I believe it’s time to explain those notes you found earlier.”