The crystal decanter clinked against the rim of the glass.
Whiskey spilled.
It pooled on the polished mahogany of the dressing table, soaking into the wood. Jason stared at the amber puddle. His hand was shaking so badly he couldn't set the bottle down.
He gripped the edge of the table. He forced himself to breathe.
In. Out.
The face in the mirror belonged to Ezra Prentice. Soft chin. High forehead. The face of a weakling alcoholic.
But the eyes were Jason Underwood's. And right now, they were wide with terror.
"Glitch."
That one word was a bullet in the chamber of a gun pressed against his temple.
If Sarah talked, it was over.
If she told anyone—a coworker, a priest, a policeman—that the millionaire genius Ezra Prentice used slang from a century that didn't exist yet, the rumors would start.
Junior would hear them. Junior would hire investigators. They would dig. They would find the discrepancies. They would find the impossibility of his predictions.
He would be branded a lunatic. Or a spy. He would be locked in an asylum, sedated with laudanum until his brain turned to mush.
Or Alta would find out.
That was worse. Alta wouldn't lock him up. She would see him as a liability to the Rockefeller name. She would have him erased.
Jason wiped the whiskey off the table with a silk handkerchief. He threw the cloth into the fire.
He couldn't wait. He couldn't hope she stayed quiet. Hope was not a strategy.
He needed to neutralize the threat. Tonight.
There was a knock at the door.
"Sir?" It was his valet, Thomas. "The carriage is ready for the dinner at your father-in-law's estate. Mrs. Prentice is waiting."
Jason adjusted his tie. He checked his pocket. The thick envelope was there. Five thousand dollars in small bills. Enough to buy a house in Ohio. Enough to disappear.
"Tell my wife I have a migraine," Jason said through the door. His voice was steady, cold. "Tell her to go without me. I will sleep it off."
"Yes, sir."
He waited until he heard Thomas's footsteps fade down the hall.
Jason stripped off his dinner jacket. He pulled a dark, heavy wool coat from the back of the wardrobe. He grabbed a tweed cap that he usually wore for shooting.
He pulled the cap low. He turned up the collar.
He slipped out the window, onto the balcony, and down the iron fire escape into the servant's alley.
He was the King of Wall Street. But tonight, he was a ghost.
The Lower East Side was a different planet.
Fifth Avenue smelled of perfume and horse manure. Here, the air tasted of boiled cabbage, urine, and rot.
Jason walked fast, keeping his head down. He avoided the streetlamps.
He knew where the telegraph clerks lived. They couldn't afford decent housing. They lived in the tenements stacked like rat cages near the river.
He stood in the shadow of a doorway across from the Western Union service entrance.
It was 9:00 PM. Shift change.
A bell rang inside the factory. A moment later, the doors burst open. A stream of exhausted workers spilled out onto the cobblestones.
They were grey-faced, coughing, clutching their thin coats against the biting wind.
Jason scanned the crowd. He felt a sick twist in his gut.
He saw her.
She was the last one out. She walked with a limp, favoring her left leg. The manager must have kicked her, or maybe she just had bad shoes.
She looked tiny. Fragile. A strong gust of wind would blow her into the Hudson River.
She turned down a narrow alleyway, heading toward the tenements.
Jason moved.
He followed her, stepping silently over puddles of stagnant water. He waited until she was halfway down the alley, away from the street noise.
He rushed her.
He didn't call her name. He grabbed her arm and spun her around, pushing her back against the brick wall.
Sarah gasped, opening her mouth to scream.
Jason clamped his hand over her mouth.
"Quiet," he hissed.
She struggled, her eyes wide with panic. She clawed at his hand. Her nails were sharp, desperate.
"It's me," Jason whispered. "It's Jason."
She froze.
The fight went out of her instantly. Her arms dropped to her sides.
Jason slowly removed his hand.
They stood there in the dark, breathing heavy clouds of steam into the freezing air.
Sarah looked up at him. In the dim light from a distant window, her face was a map of misery.
"You," she whispered. Her voice was thick with venom. "You son of a bitch."
Jason flinched. "Sarah, listen—"
"I saw you," she spat. She shoved his chest. It was a weak shove, but it burned. "I saw you in there. You looked at me like I was garbage. You threw money on the floor like I was a whore."
"I had to," Jason said. He kept his voice low, urgent. "Do you have any idea who I am here? Do you know what happens if people see us together?"
"I know who you are," Sarah said. She laughed, a bitter, jagged sound. "Ezra Prentice. The Oracle. The man who sees the future."
She stepped closer, her eyes blazing.
"I read the papers, Jason. I saw your predictions. The Panic. The copper crash. The breakup. You didn't predict them. You remembered them."
She tapped her temple.
"You're running the same playbook you used in the simulation games we played in college. You're cheating. You're cheating the whole damn world."
"I'm surviving!" Jason grabbed her shoulders. He shook her, trying to make her understand. "I woke up in the body of a drunk with a gun in his mouth! I did what I had to do!"
"And what about me?" Sarah's voice cracked. Tears welled up in her eyes, cutting tracks through the grime on her cheeks. "I woke up in a sweatshop! I've been sewing shirts for three years, Jason! Three years! I eat stale bread. I sleep on a floor with rats."
She grabbed his lapels.
"I waited for you. I knew you were here. I knew it was you in the papers. I thought you would come for me. I thought you would find me."
She let go of him. She slumped back against the wall.
" But you didn't. You married a Rockefeller. You built a castle."
Jason felt the knife twist in his gut. The guilt was physical. It was a weight that threatened to crush him.
He loved her. In the old life, she was the only good thing he had. He had left her to protect her from his failures.
And now, he had to leave her again to protect her from his success.
"I can't change what happened," Jason said. His voice was hollow. "I can't undo the marriage. I can't undo the fame. If I try to bring you into my life now... they will destroy you, Sarah. My wife... her family... they kill people who threaten the legacy."
He reached into his coat. He pulled out the envelope.
He pressed it into her hand.
"Take this."
Sarah looked down at the envelope. It was heavy.
"What is it?"
"Five thousand dollars," Jason said. "Cash. Untraceable."
Sarah's breath hitched. In 1908, that was a fortune. It was freedom.
"Leave New York," Jason commanded. "Go West. Chicago. Maybe California. Change your name. Buy a house. Start a business."
He leaned in close. His eyes were hard, intense.
"But you can never come back here. You can never speak to me again. You can never tell a soul that you know me."
Sarah looked at the money. Then she looked at him.
"This is payoff money," she whispered.
"It's survival money," Jason said. "For both of us."
She gripped the envelope tight. Her knuckles turned white. She hated him in that moment. He could see it. She hated him for his suit, for his warmth, for his cowardice.
But she took the money. Because she didn't want to starve.
"You're not Jason anymore," she said softly. "Jason was a loser. But he had a heart."
She stepped away from the wall. She backed out of the alley.
"You're just Ezra Prentice now."
She turned and ran.
She disappeared into the shadows of the tenement district, taking his humanity with her.
Jason stood alone in the alley.
He felt sick. He felt dirty. But he also felt a massive wave of relief.
It was done. She was gone. The loose end was tied off. He was safe.
He adjusted his cap. He turned to leave, heading back toward the street where he could hail a cab and return to his golden cage.
Scritch.
The sound of a match striking against brick stopped him dead.
A flame flared to life in the darkness of the alley entrance. It illuminated a scarred, pockmarked face.
Mr. Gates took a long drag from a cigarette. The tip glowed cherry-red.
He was leaning against the wall, blocking Jason's exit. He wore a long trench coat and a fedora pulled low.
Jason's blood turned to ice.
He hadn't heard him. Gates moved like smoke.
Gates exhaled a cloud of grey smoke. He looked at the spot where Sarah had vanished. Then he looked at Jason.
He smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was the smile of a man who had just found a diamond in the sewer.
"Good evening, Mr. Prentice," Gates rumbled. His voice was like gravel grinding together.
Jason straightened his spine. He tried to summon the authority of the boardroom.
"Gates," Jason said. "I didn't call for you."
"No," Gates said. "You didn't. But I figured a man like you shouldn't be walking in Shitsville alone. Too many rats."
Gates pushed himself off the wall. He walked slowly toward Jason.
He stopped two feet away. He reeked of cheap tobacco and old violence.
"You know," Gates said conversationally, "I always wondered what a man who has everything spends his pocket money on."
He pointed with his cigarette toward the end of the alley.
"That was a thick envelope, Boss. Very thick."
Jason stared at him. His mind raced.
He could deny it. He could say it was charity. He could say it was a business payment.
But Gates wasn't stupid. Gates was a predator.
"She's pretty," Gates said. He licked his lips. " skinny. But pretty eyes. She looked upset. Lovers' quarrel?"
"She is none of your concern," Jason said. His voice was deadly quiet.
"Oh, but she is," Gates corrected. He dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot. "Because you work for the Rockefellers. And the Rockefellers don't like secrets. Especially secrets that cost five thousand dollars in a dark alley."
Gates tapped the side of his nose.
"You got a soft spot, Boss. I like that. It makes you... manageable."
Jason realized the trap had snapped shut.
He had paid off Sarah to silence one threat. But in doing so, he had handed the leash to a rabid dog.
Gates knew. He didn't know about the time travel. But he knew about the girl. He knew Jason cared about her. And he knew Jason was hiding her from Alta.
It was the ultimate leverage.
"What do you want, Gates?" Jason asked.
Gates grinned. His teeth were yellow in the gloom.
"Right now?" Gates shrugged. "Nothing. I just want you to know that I'm watching out for you. I'm your guardian angel."
He patted Jason on the cheek. It was a gesture of pure disrespect. A gesture of ownership.
"Go home to your wife, Mr. Prentice. Sleep tight. I'll keep an eye on the girl for you. Make sure she stays... safe."
Gates stepped aside, clearing the path.
Jason walked past him. He forced himself not to run.
As he emerged onto the street, the wind hit his face. It felt like a slap.
He looked up at the sky. There were no stars. Only the choking smog of the city he was trying to conquer.
He had wanted to build the 20th century.
He had just realized that the 20th century was building a cage for him.