Find Me Where the Water Ends (So Close to You)

across the smooth wood. “What about me?”
“You remind me of someone. That’s all.”
“Who?”
He suddenly lurches to his feet and stumbles over to the bookcase on the far wall. He was holding it together for the partygoers outside, hiding how drunk he really was, but here, with me, he is letting down his guard.
So that is why he has been so focused on me: because I remind him of someone. It would explain why he drank so much, if it was a person he lost long ago.
I walk to the side table, reaching for the glass of water with the poison in it. It is cold in my hand, the ice cubes clinking together when I pick it up, and I’m amazed by how normal it seems, this thing that will soon kill a man.
“How old are you?” He still has his back to me, and I watch as he runs his finger down the spine of a book. It looks old, but that could mean anything here. Maybe it was written when I was a girl.
“Twenty-nine,” I lie.
“You look younger. But then, everyone does these days. I remember when twenty-nine looked like twenty-nine. And eighty-five looked like eighty-five. Did you know that’s how old I am?”
“Yes.” I step forward, skirting the side of the couch. The condensation from the glass slides down my fingertips. “But you don’t look a day over fifty, Mr. President.”
“Call me Alan.”
“Okay, Alan.” The word feels unnatural on my lips. In training we never referred to him as anything other than Sardosky or the president. It’s hard enough looking at his face, knowing I have to kill him. I don’t want him to have a name, too.
He finally turns around, propped up against the bookcase, unable to stand on his own. I clutch the water glass in my hand.
“I had a daughter, once.”
“You did?” I act surprised, but of course I knew. She died when she was sixteen, not much younger than I am now. He and his wife never had any more children.
“I did. But not anymore.” He drops his eyes to the hardwood floor at our feet. “She had leukemia. It was slow. Back then they couldn’t fix it like they can now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
I’m not sure why he’s telling me this, but I want to rush forward and cover his mouth with my hand. I do not have a choice about what happens tonight. Even now, Wes is in the control room, knocking out the guards and cutting the video feed to this room. Twenty-two is in the ballroom whispering, scheming, orchestrating a scene that will distract security while Tim hovers near the hallway, watching and waiting. I have to play out my part too.
Sometimes the Montauk Project is monstrous, kidnapping and torturing children like Wes. Stealing my future from me. Changing the course of time in what it thinks is its favor, regardless of the consequences. But this time they could be right; if we do not alter the time line now, the world as we know it could end.
So when Sardosky holds his arm out, I only hesitate a second before I push the glass toward him. He takes it in his large, clumsy hands and lifts it to his mouth. I close my eyes so I don’t have to watch him swallow.
According to General Walker, this is my destiny. These few moments are the reason I was trained to become a recruit, the reason my grandfather is trapped in a cell right now. But how is that possible? I refuse to believe that my destiny is to be a killer, even if this man’s death is necessary for the greater good.
In the end, does it even matter? I am not here because of my destiny; I’m here to keep my grandfather safe. The only way to do that is to obey the Project. If killing Sardosky will keep my grandfather alive, then I have no other choice.
The glass is empty when Sardosky holds it out to me again, and I take it from him gently. It is warm now, from his hands. He leans back against the bookshelf again, closing his eyes as he breathes deeply.
One full minute until it takes effect. I start counting the seconds as I place the glass carefully on the side table.
“Penny. That was what I called her, my daughter.”
Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.
“She had red hair, just like yours. It was why it was such a shock, when I saw you earlier. At first I thought you were her.”
This is who I remind him of. Not a lover, but a lost daughter. The Project must have known this was a possibility. That is why they didn’t want me to change my hair color, because they were hoping it would be another avenue to get to Sardosky. Perhaps they didn’t warn me because they wanted a natural reaction—surprise when he noticed my hair, confusion at his attention. They were worried that the new recruit wouldn’t be able to handle the pressure, or maybe they were just testing me, trying to see how I’d react if the mission shifted in the moment.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. I cannot think what else to say.
“We were never the same afterward. My wife and I.”
Thirty-five, thirty-six.
He straightens, pushing away from the bookcase until he’s standing right in front of me. He seems less drunk now, more alert, his eyes wide and focused on mine. “I know . . . I know this is inappropriate. But would you mind if I hugged you? Just once?”
I lean back automatically, my hands clutching the fabric of my skirt. He sees my reaction and frowns. “It’s just that you look so much like her. I just want to pretend for a minute that she’s still here.”
Oh God. What have I done? I want to refuse, to run from the room, but I can’t save him now. I have to see this through.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Forty-nine, fifty.
I stay perfectly still as he moves forward, as his arms close around mine until