Page 13 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)

“So, let me guess—you secretly occupy the whole building?” I peer beyond the hidden doorway that leads into yet another apartment.

“Just this floor,” my dad says, swiping a hand across his jaw. “It’s been in the family for ages.”

Our footsteps softly echo as I take a look around. The entertainment system is state-of-the-art for its time, and there’s not a single piece of second-hand furniture to be found. This apartment is so much nicer than the one he shares with Mark, it’s like stepping into a whole other world.

“Well, it’s definitely an upgrade.” My gaze lingers on a fridge that would definitely look dated in the twenty-first century, but in 1998, it’s top of the line. “It’s like the other side is staged to look like a typical undergrad’s apartment, while this side is more…” I pause, searching for the right words. “Bougie and aspirational,” I say, settling on two.

His lips pull into a half grin. “It’s like I said earlier, a lot of work goes into appearing normal.”

“I wonder what’s happened to it now?” I glance over my shoulder to gauge his expression. “And, by that I mean, the 2024 version of now.”

My dad shifts uneasily. “Considering everything you’ve told me about my disappearance, I suppose it’s left vacant. Which is something I can’t quite wrap my head around. I would’ve hoped I’d arranged for it to pass down to you, along with a considerable sum when you turned eighteen—same way it was handed to me.” He stops briefly at the doorway, lines of concern etching his brow. “I can’t believe I would’ve been so negligent,” he says, truly perplexed.

A hollow feeling creeps into my chest. Money. A potential inheritance that could’ve changed everything. The revelation of unclaimed wealth hangs heavily between us.

“Just because there was no inheritance,” I say, my voice flat, “doesn’t mean you’re to blame.”

“Arthur?” my dad says, as though reading my mind.

“Who else?” The words leave my lips with a bitter tang.

Just how long has he been watching me, manipulating me, steering my life straight into his trap, while I unknowingly played right into his hands?

“Well, there’s one thing I can change.” He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a set of keys. My eyes follow his movements as he slides one free of the ring and extends it toward me. “It’s the key to this apartment,” he says.

I take it, feeling its slick, cool weight in my palm. I’m so overcome with emotion—gratitude and sorrow, such unlikely companions—that it steals my words along with my breath.

“When you’ve done what you need to, you’ll always have a place to call home. I’ll also arrange for an inheritance for you and your mom that Arthur won’t discover, so you’ll never be forced to rely on him again.”

Torn between desperately wanting the easier life that sort of inheritance will provide, and the fear of disrupting the already established events of my timeline, I say, “But isn’t that messing with personal history?”

My dad pauses, a bittersweet curl tugging at the sides of his lips.

“And besides,” I continue, “as hard as it was, that struggle is partly responsible for who I am now.”

“And who’s that?” my dad asks, eyes glinting with pride.

“Strong. Independent. And, thanks to you, ready to confront Arthur Blackstone, once and for all.”

My dad studies me for a long, silent moment. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll make you a deal. While I won’t mess with what’s passed, I will make provisions for your future. Behind The Persistence of Memory is a safe. I’ll change the combination to your birthday. Sound good?”

I nod, feeling so choked up, it’s difficult to speak.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he says. “Do you mind telling me my future wife’s name?”

I hesitate. “Are you sure?” I ask. “I mean, knowing how it ends might spoil the romance, change the way you live that story.”

My dad shrugs. “I’m less interested in the surprise factor, and more interested in living a story worth telling.”

I’m about to tell him when I remember something I dragged all the way here—something I’ve had for a while but couldn’t bring myself to confront.

Am I ready now? Can I face what she wrote? And should I really share it with him?

My gaze shifts to my dad, as I reach into my tiny backpack, surprised to find his copy of the Antikythera Mechanism stashed inside.

“What’s this for?” I say, brow furrowing in confusion.

He shrugs. “I had a sense you might need it.”

Reaching past it, my fingers find the letter my mom wrote to Mason that was really intended for me. “I need you to read it,” I tell him, placing the envelope into his hand. “Out loud, so I can hear.”

He studies me for a moment, an unspoken understanding passing between us. With careful fingers, he opens the envelope and unfolds the letter. Clearing his throat, he begins to read.

“ Dear Mason, I know you probably miss her. I miss her, too. I also know you’re probably confused, wondering what might’ve happened to her. My hope is this letter will help ease your mind. And perhaps my mind as well .”

My dad pauses, casting a questioning glance my way. I nod slightly, encouraging him to continue. I’ve already read this part. It’s what comes next that I most need to hear.

“By now you’ve likely realized Natasha is gone and she won’t be returning anytime soon. It’s a reality that weighs on my heart every day.

“After her arrest, I felt broken. Not only did I fail her as a mother, but the thought of losing my precious daughter to a system that would swallow her whole was unbearable. So, when Arthur Blackstone offered an alternative—a choice between a juvenile detention center and a private academy where she could thrive in the way she deserved—well, it seemed like a lifeline, a chance to restore all the hope that was lost in the wake of her father’s absence.”

As my dad reads, he’s so overcome by the words, his voice wavers. Choked with emotion, he’s forced to stop and take a steadying breath before continuing.

“Still, the decision didn’t come easily. In fact, sending Natasha away was the hardest choice I’ve ever made. And though I managed to convince myself it was the only viable path out of the bleakness of our lives, I’m now left to grapple with the guilt and doubt that have become a regular part of my day.

“If you’ve passed by our house recently, you may have noticed that I benefitted as well. Arthur has provided a generous monthly stipend, which has freed me from the financial burdens that have long plagued our family.

“At the time, the cost seemed minimal—no contact with Natasha in exchange for a brighter future for her. What I didn’t anticipate was the profound sense of loss, the deep relentless ache that her absence has made. And I’m often reminded of the quote from Matthew, 16:26:

“What will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul?

“I pray every day I haven’t made that mistake.

“And in my darkest moments, when I’m wrestling with all that I’ve done, I find myself thinking of you, the bond you and Natasha shared, and how positively you influenced each other.

“My greatest hope now is that, once this chapter of our lives comes to a close, Natasha will be well on her way to a life far better than anything I ever could’ve provided alone.

“I hope she’ll understand that my choice stemmed not from greed, but from the depths of a mother’s love for her daughter.

“I hope, too, that she can find it in her heart to forgive me. Maybe then, I can begin the journey of forgiving myself.

“And I hope that you, Mason, can forgive me as well.

“Wishing you only the best, today and always.

“Amanda Clarke.”

When my father finishes reading, he gazes at me, his voice clogged with emotion. “Amanda?”

With tears streaming down my face, I give a tentative nod.

“There are a lot of Amandas out there,” he says, carefully refolding the letter with trembling fingers, before handing it to me. “Maybe you can help narrow it down and tell me her maiden name, at least?”

I’m on the verge of telling him, but then I pause. “I think it’ll be a lot more fun for you to discover that on your own,” I say, a small smile breaking through the thick haze of tears.

My dad laughs in response, a warm, rich, infectious sound. I find myself clinging to it, engraving it onto my memory as a treasure to carry with me into whatever comes next.

As we approach the door, the finality of the moment hits me.

This is it. I’m never going to see him again. Whatever’s left to do or say needs to happen quickly.

“Dad—” My voice falters, and I force myself to summon the strength to speak the words that have been pressing persistently against my heart. “Just so you know—you were a really amazing dad. The best any daughter could ever hope for.”

Tears flow freely down his cheeks as he pulls me into a tight embrace. I absorb the warmth of his arms, the steady beat of his heart, determined to imprint the comfort of his presence directly onto my soul. Then, with great reluctance, I pull away.

“Ready?” he asks, wiping the tears with the back of his hand.

Part of me wants to say no , dig in my heels, and demand to stay here. But strangely, the word just won’t come. Because the truth is, I am ready—or, at least, as ready as I’ll ever be. Just as he’s about to open the door, a sudden thought stops me.

“What about the tattoo?” I bite down on my lip, fearing that not only has time run out, but also that it’ll be impossible to hide, much less explain, should Arthur ever catch sight of it.

My dad looks at me, a deep, understanding flickering in his gaze. Then, leaning down to place a tender kiss onto my forehead, he says, “I have a feeling the mark will find you.” He speaks with the sort of quiet certainty I find myself cleaving to.

Then, taking my hand in his, he says, “And Natasha”—his tone grows more solemn—“I meant what I said about not trying to save me. I’ve found my peace with it, and now it’s time for you to find yours.”

I avert my eyes, staring down at my shoes in a silent rebellion against his acceptance of fate.

“You know,” he says, gently lifting my chin, guiding my gaze back to his, “there’s a Zen proverb that says: When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. When the student is truly ready, the teacher will disappear .”

A wave of uncertainty washes over me. “I feel ready,” I say, “but what if that’s just wishful thinking?” The question slips out, tinged with vulnerability.

“It’s not,” he assures me. “And someday soon, you’ll know that for yourself. But I’d be remiss not to urge you to try to determine exactly what drives Arthur to do what he does. Something tells me it goes far beyond a simple love of beauty and art. And it may provide just the clue you need to figure out how to stop him.”

I nod, a mix of hope and apprehension swirling within me. Knowing these are my final moments with him, and wanting to end on a lighter note, I playfully tug at the frayed hem of the borrowed T-shirt. “Is it okay if I keep this?”

My dad laughs, a rich, warm sound that’s so infectious, I can’t help but join in.

The laughter continues as we exit the apartment and head down the hall, connected in an unspoken understanding, we make our way to where Elodie waits.