Time Passage: A Time Travel Novel

TIME PASSAGE A Time Travel Romance NovelElyse DouglasBroadback Books Copyright © 2023 Elyse DouglasAll rights reservedThe characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.ISBN: 9798396150164Cover design by: Carter BanksLibrary of Congress Control Number: 2018675309Printed in the United States of America For Vito and Mary and those train adventures. “Time does not change us. It just unfolds us.”~Max Frisch TIME PASSAGE CHAPTER 1 On the full moon night of Wednesday, November 9, 2022, I killed him. There was no doubt he was dead. No breath. No movement. His face the color of white paper. Eyes open, staring at nothing. I didn’t check his pulse. Stayed away from him. I hit him with the heavy, ornate gold clock. It’s an antique, I think, and it cost a fortune, not that it would have mattered to him. He was bleeding from his right temple, where I hit him.My mind whirled, my pulse jumped, my throat tightened. We’d argued, and it had turned violent. We had argued before, but never like this. He grabbed my hair and jerked me around, slapping me. His ugly words were still fresh in my ears.“I should have ditched you months ago,” he shouted. “I gave you everything. I made you! If it wasn’t for me, you’d never have made it in real estate! You’d be nothing but a loser waitress, waiting on tables at some pathetic excuse for a restaurant.”“Let me go, Cliff! Stop it!”“I’ll kill you!” he roared, slapping me again.I’d broken free, gasping for air, stumbling backwards.He staggered about, whiskey glass in hand, his face twisted in anger. “How many times, Cindy? How many times have you been with him? How many times have you been with Kevin? Stop lying and tell me!”“I wasn’t with him! I’ve never been with him. Never! I’ve told you that a hundred times! You’re drunk, and when you’re drunk, you get crazy and think everybody’s out to get you,” I said, my voice shaky.“I’ll kill you!” he shouted again, hurling his whiskey glass at me. I screamed and ducked as the glass sailed over my head and shattered against the wall. And then he came at me—lunged at me like an animal—before I could run. Drunk or not, he had rage, adrenaline and a strong body, and he shoved me down on the sofa. He fell on top of me, slapping my face and cursing me.I kicked and screamed, sure he was going to kill me, when his strong hands squeezed my throat, angry breath puffing from his clenched teeth. I strained for breath, a hot white light of panic exploding in my head. In a desperate reflex, I kneed him in the balls, and he jerked up, writhing in agony, his hands releasing my neck. As he howled in pain, I twisted and kicked and shoved him off, and he tumbled onto the white carpet with a thump.With a pounding heart, I sprang up and stumbled, white dots swimming across my eyes. I swayed, staggered ahead, swayed again and braced myself against the black marble mantel, feeling a raw, burning throat and the metallic taste of blood.From the corner of my eye, I saw him spring up, wobble, then come for me, his face flamed, his eyes wild. My blood ran cold. I knew he was going to kill me.I don’t remember seeing that antique clock or reaching for it. I do remember swinging it at him as his big hands reached for me. I remember the dull thud of the clock as it thumped against his head. I remember I’d never felt so scared or so strong as the adrenaline pumped through me.And then, there was a ringing silence, and there he was, bleeding on the white carpet, his body still, his flat eyes empty, staring at nothing.I was sick. I felt darkness encircling me, like an evil presence, like death itself. The clock slid from my hand and bounced on the carpet near Cliff’s head. My breath came out in shallow puffs, and I was frozen to the spot. I didn’t know what to do. My mind locked up, and I was in a motionless trance. Should I call the police? Should I call my friend Alina? Should I call 911?I lowered my spooked eyes on him, feeling the urge to vomit. I fought it. Was he dead? Yeah… He was dead, and I had killed him.And then I didn’t do anything I should have done. I’d been in trouble with the cops before, when I was a teenager. I’d hung out with a bad crowd. I’d stolen things. I’d done jail time. I’d been called everything from a cheap whore, to a hoodie thief, to a gold-digging bitch.I hated jail and swore I’d never go back, no matter what. The cops scared me. The lawyers didn’t care. So, I had a record. Would anybody believe me if I told them I’d killed the famous billionaire Clifton Prince in self-defense? No, of course not.I felt my stomach pitch as I made a dash for the door, grabbing my long, sealskin coat, my gloves, and my purse. Hurrying down the burgundy and silver carpeted hallway, I finger combed my hair, which must have looked a mess. I was sure my face looked a mess.Downstairs in the spacious, gleaming lobby, my smile was forced, my steps measured, not rushed, as the pleasant doormen, Pedro, held the glass doors for me and asked if I’d be back soon.Just before exiting, I lowered my gaze, in case my face was bruised, or my eyes swollen. I didn’t know how I looked.“Oh, yes, I’ll be back in a half hour or so,” I said, as casually and as brightly as