Future Shock

38

I take a few minutes to change from my clothes into the dry ones Future-Adam left for us and clean myself up a bit. My hair is all stringy and has dried in a weird crunchy way, but without a brush, all I can do is run my fingers through it. I’m a mess, but at least I’m a dry mess now.

I sit at the counter on a fuzzy cushion with tassels and dig around in my backpack. The origami unicorn is a bit smashed from being stuffed inside, but the silver paper still glints in the light. I slowly unfold the paper, trying not to tear it as I unravel its intricate design. As it flattens out, I see numbers scrawled in black ink on the matte-white back: 73 21 12 37.

Huh? I read the line again, trying to make sense of the four numbers. I thought there’d be some secret message inside, some words of wisdom, something to explain what is happening to us—but all I get are numbers? What kind of sick joke is this? I know that Adam is a genius, but these numbers don’t mean anything to me.

I go over the message again. The numbers are mirrors, forming a palindrome. That must be a clue of some kind, but what? I rub my palms against my eyes. Think. Future-Adam wants me to understand whatever he’s trying to tell me. He wouldn’t make it too obscure or he’d know I would never figure it out.

I replay his words about the unicorn: Open it when you’re at my house, when you’re alone and somewhere safe. Somewhere safe—this could be a combination to a safe. But he didn’t tell me where the safe is, and I don’t have time to search this entire massive house.

No, Future-Adam would know that, so it can’t be too hard to find. There’s only one room that looks lived in, and that’s his bedroom. He left our clothes in there too. The safe must be in there.

The hallway outside the bathroom is empty. I walk through the silent, hollow house, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. I don’t see any of the others, but they’re probably still getting cleaned up.

I half expect Adam to be in his future bedroom, going through the dressers or something, but it’s empty. I shut the door behind me and scan the room. Where do rich people hide their safes? I search around the place quickly but don’t see anything that could hold a safe.

I sink down onto the bed, suddenly so tired I can barely move. It’s been about ten hours since we got to the future. Even though it’s only 4:41 p.m. here, to our internal clocks it’s after midnight. I’ve never been out of California, but I bet this is what jet lag feels like. I’d love to just lie down and pass out until it’s time to get back to the aperture. Let someone else figure out what’s going on—I’m exhausted.

But there’s no one else. I’m the only one who can stop these murders.

As I stand, I spot my reflection in the silver-edged mirror on the wall. That’s it! The mirror. That’s why the numbers were in that sequence. I rush over and peer behind the frame. There’s definitely something back there.

I grab the mirror and yank it off the wall. A small metal box is embedded underneath with a keypad on it. My heart races as I enter the numbers and the safe pops open.

Inside is a thick folder. Nothing else.

I flip the folder open and find page after page of information on each of our murders. This must be everything Future-Adam collected on our deaths. Police and autopsy reports. Crime scene photos. News articles. It’s all here.

I go through each page, soaking up everything like a sponge. Trent was killed first, with his time of death estimated between 3:00 p.m. and 4:30 p.m. His body was found in a dumpster, but he was killed in an abandoned building nearby where he’d been squatting. Zoe died next, between 4:30 p.m. and 6:00 p.m. in her girlfriend’s apartment, just like her sister said. No signs of forced entry. Chris is the third victim, shot two blocks from the auto repair shop where he works, between 8:00 p.m. and 11:00 p.m.

I’m last in the folder. My body was found on the beach, partially submerged in salt water, which washed away both fingerprints on the gun and gunshot residue on my hands. I had some injuries, but they thought they were from fighting with the others. And one bullet to the head, from close proximity. My mother’s watch cracked from the impact of the gunshot, freezing it at 11:38 p.m. That’s how they knew my exact time of death.

Through blurry eyes, I force myself to look at photos of the crime scenes and of the bodies. The police reports say the gun that killed us was a Glock 9mm with the serial numbers filed off. A photo confirms it for me—it’s the same gun as the one in my backpack. The police also have witnesses, fingerprints, and even strands of my hair, all tying me to the crime scenes.

The papers flutter to the floor. I slide down the wall and cover my face with my hands, trying to block out the horrible images that are now carved into my memory like into stone. All the bodies, bent at awkward angles, covered in blood. My own corpse, bloated and pale.

Any questions I had in my mind are gone. We’re going to die tomorrow, and all evidence points to me as the murderer.

“Elena?” Zoe calls from the other side of the door. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine.” I should show the others everything in this file. They need to know about their own deaths, to know the facts about what is going to happen to us.