San Diego, 2018

Lacey Guarder snapped her gum and scrutinized the man sitting across the table in the small attorney conferencing room. He was a typical public defender: overweight, watery-eyed, with a choir boy haircut and too much cheap cologne. The man’s ill-fitted suit and knock-off Rolex didn't exactly inspire confidence, and Lacey congratulated herself on her good fortune; everything about her public defender screamed “inept,” and the more helpless she appeared in court the better her chances were of beating the latest addition to her illustrious criminal record.

Paul F. Baker tugged the handkerchief from his breast pocket and began cleaning his Harry Potter glasses. “How do you intend to plead?" The man’s monotone suggested he'd already posed the question a hundred times that day, and Lacey added overworked to the plus side of her public defender’s pros and cons list.

She glanced up at the ceiling and saw the standard, too-bright, recessed lighting. She wondered if all the jails on the west coast had been decorated by war criminals; the rooms all had the atmosphere and charm of 20th century gulags. She knew the nonexistent decor was designed to intimidate, but the effect was lost on her: she'd done this dance so many times before that the stark, grim place almost felt like home.

Her burned-out public defender leaned back in his chair until the metal creaked in submission. “Okay, Miss Guarder…” He slipped his glasses back onto his bulbous nose. “We’ll enter a plea of guilty...” he went on, “and try for a lesser sentence."

“Why?” Lacey chewed her gum and watched him carefully.

He blinked at her, as if confused that she’d dare to question his sage advice. “Why what?”

“Why plead guilty?”

He stared at her, and then laughed at what he obviously considered her gross naiveté. “Because it will save you the cost and hassle of a trial.”

Lacey grunted. She highly doubted Paul F. Baker gave a damn about her cost and hassle. She was just another customer to Mr. Baker, another criminal in an ever-revolving jailhouse door. But he was just another attorney to her, another shyster in a cheap blue suit.

“No,” she replied. A guilty plea may have been a viable solution for a first-time offender determined to avoid a lengthy prison term, but this wasn’t Lacey’s first rodeo—Paul F. Baker should have realized that the moment he’d laid eyes on the thick file resting on the table in front of him.

The man sat forward in his chair and folded his hands on her closed file. “Miss Guarder,” he began patiently. “Pleading guilty means resolving the case quickly rather than waiting a year or more for a criminal trial, and it avoids handing your case over to an unpredictable jury. It also prevents your family from being subjected to unwanted media attention. Frankly”—he leaned back and folded his arms over his expansive chest—“I’m stumped at what you could hope to gain by not pleading guilty."

Uh-oh, Lacey thought. Sherlock is stumped. “Exactly how long have you been practicing?" she asked.

“Five years."

“Five years ago I was being brought up on charges for my first felony.”

"That's not exactly something to brag about—”

“I’m not proud of getting caught.”

His small eyes narrowed on her. It seemed she finally had his attention.

“I was seven years old when I lifted my first wallet, counselor. Thirteen when I stole my first car. Stealing’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. Expecting me to feel guilty about that is like me asking you to repent for passing the bar exam.”

The man took in this information and then cleared his throat. Finally, he turned his attention to the thick file resting on the table in front of him and thumbed up the top page.

While he read silently, Lacey summed it all up for him. "I was born to a heroin addict. I spent the first five years of my life in and out of emergency rooms—until my loving mother was finally charged with abuse and neglect. After that, I was shuffled between various foster families until I was labeled unmanageable and put in a youth home. At eighteen I aged out and was dumped onto the cold hard streets to fend for myself. I am without means, without any prospects for means, and am only trying to survive in this dark, dangerous world the very best way I know how. My crimes are nonviolent, do not involve children, are basically unimportant compared to the rest of the judge's demanding docket, and putting me in jail for any significant amount of time would be cruel and unusual punishment—not to mention a waste of tax-payer money.” She punctuated the end of her statement with a snap of her gum.

Paul F. Baker gave her a disdainful look. “You intend to tell the judge all that?”

"No, Mr. Baker, that's your job. My job is to wear something unassuming and cry at all the right moments."

He frowned and closed her file. “I take it this tactic has worked for you in the past?”

"I've never spent more than three days in jail."

His mouth dropped open. “But your rap sheet is three pages long,” he sputtered.

"The last judge I appeared before called me a victim of society. He advised me to seek counseling, and sentenced me to ten hours of trash recovery and two-hundred-dollars in reparations. You get fired when you screw up on the job, Mr. Baker. I get community service and a fine."

“But this time you have two prior felonies," he was quick to point out—too quick, in Lacey’s point of view. "The diamond ring you lifted from Madison's was worth well over twenty-five thousand dollars.” A smile twisted his lips. “That’s felony number three."

Three strikes and you're out!

There were real criminals out there selling drugs to children, raping women, murdering helpless citizens in their beds at night. Lacey, on the other hand, had been caught committing her third felony—a victimless jewel heist—and, unless she could find a way to beat the charge, she was facing life in prison.

“Entrapment,” she responded. “Open and shut.”

She’d been approached by a well-known fence and told that the security system in Madison's was being overhauled, that its cameras and inner alarms were being temporarily disconnected. The whole thing had been too enticing for Lacey to pass up—which should have been her first clue. Within two minutes of picking the lock on the front door of the store, the San Diego bunco squad had barged out of the back room, and the “fence” who’d given her the tip had slapped a pair of cuffs on her faster than she could cry “foul.”

“It was a sting operation,” Mr. Baker corrected.

“If they hadn’t given me the tip, I would have never broken into the store. That’s the very definition of entrapment.”

“You’re a career criminal, Miss Guarder. If it wasn’t Madisons, it would have been some other store in some other town and that’s all the judge is going to consider.”

Career criminal? Lacey supposed that’s what she was. But Paul, here, was a career lawyer, which wasn't a whole lot better in her point of view.

"Who's the judge?" she asked him.

"Johanson."

"And what's his position on this three strikes law?" Dare she hope her judge was one of the few who found the law too harsh and an infringement of civil rights?

Her public defender smirked like a man about to pull the switch on her electric chair. "He's a she. And Susan Johanson is one of the judges who’s known for getting criminals like yourself off the streets."

Lacey chewed her gum and stared at him. "You don't like me very much, do you, counselor?"

That wiped the smile off his face. “It's not my job to have an opinion of you, Miss. Guarder,” he replied. "It's my job to give you the best—"

"Representation the state can afford," she finished for him. "I've heard the speech.”

He grunted. “I bet you have.”

“It’s okay, you know. You disliking me just ups my chances for a mistrial.”

He clenched his teeth and stood. “You know, it’s conniving, corrupt people like you who make me hate my job."

“What a coincidence. It’s hypocritical, self-righteous people like you who make me love mine."

He sucked in an angry breath. "Your arraignment is scheduled for two o'clock this afternoon." He picked up his briefcase and gathered her file. "I suggest, for your sake, that you seriously consider pleading guilty."

He turned for the door and Lacey noted the wrinkles in the back of his blue jacket: a cheap cotton blend, just as she'd suspected. “Keep doing what you do, counselor,” she called after him, “and I’ll win this thing yet.”

His shoulders tensed. He left the room and slammed the door shut behind him.

Lacey smiled to herself. Paul F. Baker was just what she needed. The Honorable Susan Johanson, on the other hand, could prove problematic. In Lacey’s experience, female judges tended to be less sympathetic to her cause than men. The last woman she'd stood before down in Tucson, Arizona, had given her two weeks of jail time and a hefty fine. It had taken Lacey four straight days to con people out of the two-thousand dollars she’d needed to legally leave the state.

Male judges were a lot easier to deal with. Most suffered from Hero Syndrome, a disorder that incapacitated rational thought, forcing men to come to the aid of helpless females. Due to her small stature, Lacey could appear plenty helpless when needed, and men usually fell all over themselves to help her out of a jam. They tended to underestimate her—which made it remarkably easy to rob them blind.

But now she was facing life in prison and the thought made her heart drop into her stomach. What if she couldn’t talk her way out of this one? What if she was doomed to live the rest of her life in lock-down? She shook her head; she had to stay positive. She couldn’t let fear take over or she’d end up making a mistake that might cost her dearly. She would handle this situation with the same cool head and clear thinking that had gotten her out of jail numerous times. Female judge or not, she would find a way—

“Why am I not surprised to find you here, Miss Guarder?"

Startling, Lacey looked up to find a woman with short dark hair standing in front of the closed door. How long had she been standing there? Lacey hoped the woman hadn’t seen her brief moment of defeat.

Lacey glared at her. “I’m waiting to be returned to my cell.”

"Your home away from home?" the woman quipped. She moved closer. "I understand you're facing life in prison this time. I must admit, I had my worries about leaving you alone for any length of time. It’s good to see they were unfounded,” she added dryly.

Lacey had had enough of the San Diego legal system for one day. She opened her mouth to call for her guard, but then hesitated. She suddenly had the oddest feeling she’d seen this woman somewhere before. "Who are you?”

“I must admit, you've shown a knack for getting yourself out of sticky situations in the past, Miss Guarder, but I somehow doubt you’re going to wriggle your way out of this one.”

Lacey assessed the woman’s tailored, charcoal gray suit and glistening strand of pearls. Unlike Paul F. Baker, this was no typical public defender. "Do I know you?"

"In a manner of speaking,” the woman replied. "You might say I am the answer to all of your problems.”

Lacey smirked. “And what can a leprechaun in an expensive suit do for me?"

The woman’s eyes flashed. "Oh, you have made such a lovely mess of your life, young lady. I suppose it would be premature of me to expect a little contrition on your part before we’ve even gotten started.”

"Contrition?" Lacey scoffed.

"It means remorse. Sorrow. Repentance—"

"I know what the word means.”

The woman arched her dark brows. "Really? I never would have guessed.”

Lacey ignored the insult. The woman could be from Paul F. Baker's office, but she could also be on the prosecution’s team—which meant the career criminal couldn't afford to miss out on what the bite-sized barrister had to say.

The woman smirked at her. “To answer your burning question, I am here to offer you a deal."

Mystery solved. She was with the prosecution—and the little lady was definitely talking Lacey’s language. Keep it cool, Lace. "A deal?" she asked casually.

"Precisely."

This was surprising. The district attorney's office had been rubbing Lacey’s nose in the fact that they had a very clear recording of her filching a five-carat diamond ring from Madison’s Jewelers' display case.

“I have been authorized,” the woman continued, “to see you completely removed from this situation.”

Lacey’s heart leapt. She frowned to cover her excitement. “What does that mean?”

"It means, it will be as if this misfortune you’ve found yourself in—yet again—never even occurred."

Lacey blinked. She couldn't believe her ears. The only way to explain this wild turn of events was if the D.A.'s evidence wasn't as iron-clad as they'd claimed. They must have lost the recording. “Let’s hear some details."

“You have two choices. You can stay here and spend the rest of your life behind bars, or you can let me send you to a place where you will have the chance to make a whole new life for yourself."

"Send me to a place?"

"The only thing I need to hear from you is yes," the woman continued, "and you will be relocated—"

"Relocated?" Lacey interrupted. She rose to her feet. “Relocated to where?"

"To your home."

Lacey grunted. "My home is whatever hotel I can afford at the moment."

"I'm talking about your true home."

Lacey’s heart froze. “I don't have a true home."

“Lesson number one, Miss Guarder: I am never wrong. Things will go much smoother from here on out if you simply accept that fact."

Lacey narrowed her eyes. She was beginning to think her initial assessment had been wrong. What kind of prosecutor went to the trouble of relocating a known felon? “Who are you?”

The woman laughed. “I highly doubt you're prepared to hear the answer—"

"I make it a habit to be prepared for anything, lady."

The woman paused for a moment, as though the request were a weighty one, and then she nodded. "All right…. Miss Guarder, I am your spiritual guide. I am here to return you to your rightful place in time. To put it simply, there was a mix-up during your temporal placement, and, as a result, you are now living in the wrong century."

Lacey stared at her for a long, silent moment. "I beg your pardon?"

"Shirley Guarder was not your intended mother."

A sick feeling knifed through Lacey’s belly. “Calling Shirley Guarder a mother is quite a stretch.”

"You had an unfortunate childhood—"

“Unfortunate?” Lacey laughed—a cold sound even to her own ears. “I guess that explains why I've spent my entire life trying to forget it.”

"What you've done, Miss Guarder, is spent your entire life making the rest of the world pay for it. Time and time again you have failed to take responsibility for your own actions, and I, for one, am extremely disappointed in you."

Lacey flushed with anger. Claiming disappointment was the wrong thing to say to someone who'd never been able to live up to anyone's expectations—ever—including her own. “Well.” She circled the table toward the woman. “Far be it from me to disappoint you."

The woman stood her ground, even though Lacey's slight frame towered over her by a good four inches. "You are being given a rare opportunity, here, Miss Guarder. I must have your answer now.”

"Listen, lady.” Lacey pointed her finger at her. “If you've got a deal for me then spit it out and stop wasting my time with all this temporal placement garbage!”

The woman pursed her lips. "Lesson number two, Miss Guarder: I do not take well to being shouted at. The last young woman who bellowed at me found herself abandoned in the middle of Kansas. I suggest you remain calm."

Lacey flexed her hands at her sides. “Tell me your terms," she stated evenly.

"I will be sending you to a place where no one has ever heard of Lacey Louise Guarder. You will have the opportunity to start fresh, to build a whole new life for yourself—"

"What's the catch?"

“Catch, Miss Guarder? I am offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. Considering your circumstances, perhaps you should drop the hardened criminal act and show a little gratitude for a change.”

“All right,” Lacey replied tightly. “Why, pray tell, am I being offered this illustrious opportunity?"

“During your twenty-five years on this earth you have proven yourself to be conniving, hostile, and completely untrustworthy. But, the powers that be are willing to concede that your life might have turned out differently if circumstances had not been as they were. Everyone deserves a second chance, Miss Guarder. This is yours. However, I must warn you, if you accept this relocation and then continue to wreak your usual havoc, you will be snatched back to this jail so fast you won't know what year it is."

"Are you saying the charges against me aren't being dropped?"

The woman laughed. “Hardly. The charges against you will be waiting right here if you should choose to re-embrace them."

"So let me get this straight,” Lacey began. “You're going to take me to a place where no one knows me, where I can start a whole new magical life for myself, even though the case against me here is completely solid?"

"That is correct."

Lacey snorted. “Come on, lady. What’s really going on? You can't be hoping I’ll testify against somebody because I work alone. I wasn't beaten when I was arrested, so this isn’t about police brutality. No, something must have happened to that recording…”

"I assure you, Miss Guarder, the recording is real and intact."

"Then frankly, lady, I am mystified."

“I’m offering you a chance at a better life. It is as simple as that."

"And where is this wonderful new life? Syria? Afghanistan? North Korea?”

"Washington. You might know it better as the Pacific Northwest."

"Seattle?" Lacey laughed. "Sorry, lady. I passed through there last summer and they know me pretty well now.”

The woman pursed her lips and closed her eyes. "Integrity, Miss Guarder. Do try to learn the word.” She gave Lacy a patient look. “The town I am sending you to is called Tranquility."

"Never heard of it."

"That's because it is no longer a town. It went bankrupt in '79."

Lacey gave her an incredulous look. "You're banishing me to a town that's been deserted since 1979? I guess that explains why nobody will know who I am."

"I said seventy-nine, Miss Guarder. Not nineteen seventy-nine. I intend to send you back to the year 1878, to the small logging town of Tranquility, Washington."

Lacey stared at the woman. To think she'd been standing there for close to fifteen minutes arguing with a lunatic. “All right, who let you in here?”

“I suggest you at least allow me to prove my claims before you dismiss them out of hand.”

"You want me to let you prove that you can send me back a hundred and forty years into the past?" Lacey let out a laugh and sat down on the edge of the table. "You know what, lady, I’ll take that bet. I could use a little entertainment."

The woman smiled. “And I will take that as your agreement.”

A strong gust of wind hit Lacey full in the face. She gasped, hunched her shoulders against a sudden, bone-jarring chill, and opened her eyes—when had she'd closed them? Her breath caught and her jaw dropped to her chest. She was standing in the middle of a frigid, snow-covered forest and had absolutely no idea how she'd gotten there.

Confused, Lacey spun in a tight circle, looking around in bewilderment at the white, frozen ground. Fat snowflakes drifted down from the sky, melting against her face and catching in her eyelashes. "What the…”

Something brushed against her ankle. She looked down to find her brown suede purse lying at her feet—the same purse that had been deposited into the personal effects locker at the San Diego County jail. She stooped and picked it up. Fear was wreaking havoc with her heart rate. How had she gone from a small, sparse room in sunny California to a snow-covered forest in the blink of an eye?

And then she knew. That woman!

Lacey turned to her left, then her right, searching for the pint-sized prosecutor. Nothing moved in the woods surrounding her. She cocked her head, listened, and heard nothing but winter-muffled silence. She held out her hands and caught a dozen snowflakes. It was all too real.

"Enjoying yourself, Miss Guarder?"

Lacey settled a narrow-eyed stare on the petite woman suddenly standing in front of her. "What did you—” Her eyes widened. She peered closer. The woman’s small feet weren't making any impressions in the snow—because she was floating several inches above the ground. “How are— You aren't— Who are you?!” Lacey finally got out.

"I told you. I am your spiritual guide. And this"—the woman made a broad sweep with her arms—"is 1878 Washington Territory. Welcome home, Miss Guarder."

"Home?" Lacey squeaked.

"You are standing just outside the city limits of Tranquility. It's very cold here. May I suggest you start looking for shelter?”

And without so much as a good-bye, the woman vanished.

Lacey's knees went weak. She dropped to the snowy ground and sat there for several long minutes in stunned silence. She'd always believed there was nothing beyond life and the world she knew—seize the day and all that—and she wasn't sure she liked the ramifications of what was being suggested to her now.

The biting cold began to seep through her pants. The little woman was right: she needed to find shelter.

Lacey stood and brushed herself off. She could feel a chill trying to dig its way between her shoulder blades. Not sure which way to go, she headed off downhill, hoping to find a river that would lead her to civilization.

As she walked, snow spilled over the tops of her leather pumps and soon her feet were soaked and numb. The wind picked up. It penetrated the thin knit of her sweater and left her breathless with cold. Her body began to convulse with shivers. Needles shot through her hands. She looked down and found her fingers pink from the cold. She breathed on them, tried to bring back some warmth, but it didn’t help. If she didn’t find shelter soon, she was going to freeze to death.

She spotted a tall, thick tree and darted beneath it, hoping its branches would shelter her from the falling snow. It did, but nothing could shield her from the unrelenting wind.

She groaned and lifted her face to the gloomy sky. "Is—is this m-my new s-sentence then?” she shouted. “To f-freeze to death out h-here?" Her only answer was the rustling of the snow-laden pines above her.

She huddled up against the tree trunk in a desperate attempt to stay warm, and that’s when she heard the loud cry of an eagle. She looked up and watched the giant bird soar across the sky, dipping and twirling, and then glide off toward the distant horizon…toward a thin line of dark smoke rising up above the tree tops. Lacey’s heart leapt. Where there was smoke, there was fire—a hot, crackling fire.

Her mind set on survival, Lacey left her meager sanctuary and began to make her way toward what she hoped would be shelter. She wasn't exactly dressed for a hike, let alone a march through a blizzard, but the woman who’d abandoned her there had left her little choice.

When she finally came upon the farm house, she felt like she’d been hiking for hours. Her attention fixed on the porch, she forced her frozen legs to move one step at a time until she was standing in front of the carved-wood front door. She pried open the screen door and knocked without thinking. Pain shot through her cold, stiff knuckles. Unwilling to die so close to sanctuary, she curled her hand into a fist and gave the door several hard thuds.

A heavy-set older woman finally opened the door and blinked at her. Lacey tried to speak, but her teeth were chattering so badly she couldn't get a word past her frozen lips.

"Who is it, Hazel?" a male voice called from within.

“I-I’m not sure," the woman called back. She pulled the door open wider. “Oh, you poor dear.”

The heat coming from the house beckoned to Lacey. She was gathering the strength to step inside when a creaking groan sounded from the roof. She looked up just in time to see the snow pack on the eaves break loose and come crashing down over her head.