The internet was proving to be a bust.

People who thought you could find everything online clearly hadn't tried to discover anything about time travel. Legit time travel.

Oh, there were plenty of websites about theories behind it, and I spent more than a few hours trying to figure out if I was just as crazy as some of the so-called time travelers I discovered when trying to research the possibility.

There was one site where the author tried to convince the visitors that he was a traveler from 2143, and he’d to come back to prevent a catastrophic event that would take place in his time if we didn’t ‘fix’ things. But he didn’t elaborate on ‘things’, and the little counter on his site—seriously, who still used those?—showed he’d only had 1163 visitors, including me, since the site went active nearly three years earlier.

I guess humanity was doomed if he was real.

It was a depressing thought, and one that made me start focusing more on the 1960s and Florence, Glenn and whatever else I might glean from research.

Finding information or articles on Florence was easy. She’d had an extensive online presence, had even kept an online blog up until four years ago. The final entry had been from her daughter, letting her fans know that Florence was stepping back from public life to focus on her family and staying healthy, at the advice of her doctors.

Glenn, though—it was as if he’d ceased to exist after the summer of 1962.

The information on him was sketchy, limited mostly to a few short paragraphs on Wikipedia and a movie website. That was practically it.

The media had fawned on him.

I remember after Florence had nearly died, he’d had a hard time going ten feet without having a camera shoved in his face. It had gotten to the point that we rarely left the house without wearing scarf and sunglasses if we were going out together, needing to protect our privacy.

As I realized where my thoughts were going, I stopped and shook my head. “You believe all of this,” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck.

Yeah. I did. Maybe it made me as crazy as the traveler from 2143, but I really did believe I’d travel to 1962 and fallen in love with a moody, sexy bastard.

Yet, I needed to see some proof; have some sort of tangible evidence.

Which would explain why I was trudging up the steps of the largest library in Los Angeles. It had an extensive catalog of digitized periodicals, with a focus on everything local—from Hollywood legends to things that had happened in and around Los Angeles, dating back to the early nineteen hundreds.

I was hoping to find anything, really.

Most of the general searches I’d done for Los Angeles or Hollywood in the sixties had just netted me information on the civil rights movement that had finally reached California. If I really wanted specific information, I was going to have to dig for it.

As I settled down to work, my phone buzzed, and I checked the message.

Uncle Daniel, wanting to know what I was up to.

I texted him that I was at the library, reading up about Florence. I left Glenn out of it, not wanting to make him any more curious than he probably already was.

Curious… or concerned?

“The same thing,” I muttered.

Two hours later, I leaned back in my chair, craning my neck to the left, then to the right.

So far, I hadn’t discovered much of anything, other than the fact that after Florence’s overdose, her career had gone into overdrive. She’d viewed her second chance as just that—a second chance.

She’d gotten married—and not to Glenn.

I couldn’t help but be grateful for that.

But there was so little about Glenn.

Rubbing my weary eyes, I stretched my stiff back, then bent over the monitor again. I clicked over to look at yet another page of articles, eyes blurring. I don’t know how long I stared at the headline before it finally clicked.

Hollywood Golden Boy Loses Fiancée

My mouth went dry, and I zoomed in on the grainy print. The library had worked hard to digitize decades worth of newspapers and magazines, and it was far better than what I would have found back home—but when the article was printed on poor quality paper, there was only so much that could be done.

Still, grainy or not, I could read the print just fine and the name Glenn Jackson jumped out at me.

I scrolled further down, and my heart clutched inside my chest when I found myself staring at a near-perfect artistic rendering of…me.

“Oh, man…”

And that wasn’t the only thing.

At the end of the piece, there was a picture of Glenn walking down the steps with a woman. And although the quality of the picture wasn’t great, there was no denying who it was.

It was me.

“It really did happen,” I whispered.

* * *

“Ma’am?”

I looked up to find myself staring into the sweet face of a woman, a pair of retro cat-eye glasses perched on the end of her nose. She was clad in a bright, poppy red dress, with her hair was swept up into a bun.

“Yes?”

She glanced at the print-outs around me, then smiled at me. “We’re closing in fifteen minutes. I just wanted to let you know. You seem awfully caught up.”

Fifteen…I looked out the window and caught the vivid colors of the sun as it sank closer to the horizon. As I did so, I grew aware of the ache in my bones and the crick in my neck.

I had been there for hours—like, six of them. I hadn’t so much as used the restroom, or even gotten a drink of water.

“Film buff?” She picked up one of the articles, studying it for a moment before looking at me, still smiling.

“Excuse me?”

She put the article on Glenn’s dying—dead—career back down as she gave a soft laugh. “Research like this can only mean one of two things, in my experience. Either you’re a writer, researching for a book, or you’re planning on a career in the industry.” She sighed, a wistful sort of sound. "I had those dreams once myself. So many people come here thinking to make it."

She left without another word and I picked up the paper she’d put down.

No, I wasn’t researching or studying up for a career in film.

I was trying to find out what happened to the man I’d fallen in love with. And this article here, the one I’d just printed out, had been the final nail.

The one that had all but devastated me.

His career, and his life, had spiraled out of control in 1962.

The day I disappeared, the day I returned—it was as if his life fell apart.

“Glenn…”

* * *

I’d sent my uncle a text before I left the library.

He’d tried to contact me several times and guilt had me responding before I left, even though I was achingly tired—and just plain aching, sore through to my very soul.

It had happened.

I wasn’t just crazy.

I didn’t understand, though.

Why had I gone back at all?

Unless it really had been to save Florence. But why go back to save one person, only to destroy the life of another? Not to mention breaking my own heart.

The drive to Uncle Daniel’s house wasn’t long enough to find any answers, even though he lived almost twenty minutes outside the city—and it was a big city. Even at night, LA bustled, so it took almost an hour to finally get to his place—but those minutes did nothing to provide insight into what was going on.

Of course, I felt like I could travel to the North Pole and back and still not have any answers.

The lights of my uncle’s driveway had never been more welcome, and I thought about just sneaking inside, slipping into the pretty room he had designed for me, sinking into the tub and just zoning out. I wanted to forget for a little while.

Maybe if I did, maybe if I could, things would be clearer.

I didn’t know.

I wouldn’t find out either, not right away.

The moment I walked in, Uncle Daniel appeared in the doorway and I was caught up in a bone-crushing hug. “You had me worried, Maya. Have you spent this entire day at the library?”

It wasn’t doubt I heard in his voice, not really.

Just the words of somebody who’d been worried.

He didn’t even wait for an answer—just drew back and studied me, a deep frown creasing his handsome face. He angled my face one way, then the other before he sighed heavily. “You are losing weight. Do you know that? You’ve only been here a few weeks and you’ve probably lost ten pounds. I promised your dad I’d take care of you. You’re going to go back looking like a waif!”

“No, I’m not.” Pushing up onto my toes, I kissed his cheek. “I’m fine, Uncle Daniel. Just tired. I want to go up and take a bath, get some rest.”

“Oh, no,” he said, stopping me before I turned away. Shrewd eyes captured me. “When was the last time you ate?”

As though he’d said the magic words, my stomach yowled in demand.

Sheepishly, I shrugged. “I had a sandwich a while ago.”

“Define a while.” He gestured for me to follow. He was a man used to giving commands. I wasn’t precisely used to following them, but he was right—I did need to eat.

Ten minutes later, we sat down over the pasta he’d kept warm while waiting for me to get home. It was good, and I ate more than I needed to, considering I was going to bed, but also, I hadn’t eaten hardly anything the past few days. I defended the second helping by telling myself I needed the carbs.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Uncle Daniel said, cutting himself off in the middle of a story he’d been telling me. I couldn’t have answered a single question about what he’d been telling me, but the drone of his voice was comforting. He pushed himself back from the table, reaching for a parcel, and I felt my gut go cold at the sight of it. I barely managed to smooth out my features before he turned back to me.

“This was delivered earlier.” He laughed softly. “Is this some new monthly crate or something? It looks old—very old. The delivery service wanted to apologize for the tardiness of the delivery. He said there was an issue—if you wanted to call the office, they could explain.”

“Okay.” My voice came out a mere whisper, and I had to clear my throat and try again after he gave me an odd look. “I’ll have to open it and see what it is. Might be from a friend.”

I gave a weak smile as I took it from him, running my hands over the thick, waxy paper.

My own handwriting stared back up at me.

Pretending a lack of interest, I put it down and reached for my spoon. “So…you were saying?”

Uncle Daniel studied me a moment, then went back to his seat and picked up his glass of wine. As he continued to talk, I nodded and smiled, even managed to ask a question or two. But I was focused on the parcel.

Focused on the letter I knew that was away tucked inside a book, protected by time and damage.

Why had it arrived here now?

Why hadn’t I received it in time to keep from making the stupid mistakes that had sent me back to begin with?