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key pressed against her chest.
     
    ************
     
    Hannah Masterson opened the door and walked to the mailbox, a routine she had done for years. She returned clutching a wad of envelopes and newspapers. A quick check turned up no new postcards or letters from John. There were several bills, objects she would have carried to John’s desk but now felt heavy in her hands.
    She paused on the stoop to the large Tudor house and looked around, as if seeing the neighborhood for the first time. There wasn't a home in the Cedar Creek subdivision that was under half-a-million dollars and the lawns were all taken care of by professional services. She knew the people who inhabited each house on her street but she wouldn't consider any of them friends.
    She had done the Cedar Creek social routine simply because it was what she was supposed to do as John's wife. She had made no special effort to cultivate friends after moving onto the street over three years ago. Now there was no one she could turn to, no shoulder to rest her head on and cry.
    Hannah swung the front door open and walked inside. She headed directly for the kitchen, throwing the mail on the counter and pulling the bottle out of the dry bar. She poured herself an ample amount of alcohol then slumped down in her favorite chair, facing the large front windows.
    She was surrounded by books. Thousands of them. John had always joked that if a nuclear blast went off anywhere, they were more than adequately protected from the nuclear fallout by the interior wall of books in the house. They had been Hannah’s refuge over the years from a different kind of fallout from the world outside. John had supported her in building the walls of paper, constantly bringing home new books for her to read. They brought scant comfort now, though, as trouble had penetrated into the household.
    Hannah thought about John. She had been nineteen when she met him in college. A sophomore, she had felt worldly and wise, especially since they met in an Elizabethan Literature class, her turf, not his. John had been a major in graduate engineering; she an undergrad comparative literature major. He had immediately attracted her when he spoke of how important a classical education was for everyone. He was older than most of the other students, in his mid-twenties and he never really spoke about how he'd spent the years before school, only telling her he'd been in the military. The mystery had deepened her attraction.
    In John she had sensed a man who not only knew the concrete facts of how to live his life, but also was aware of the abstract ideas that would make life worth living. She had fallen for him quickly, especially since he projected such strong emotion toward her and wanted her so badly. She had never felt so needed.
    Hannah laughed out loud, the sound echoing through the empty house. Needed. What a word. Her shock from the meeting with Howard was fading and anger was seeping through the cracks. She drained the glass and hurled it against the wall of the house that was no longer hers. "You son-of-a-bitch!" she screamed.
     

     

CHAPTER 4
     
    Neeley was parked outside the Greyhound Station in Hartford, Connecticut. She looked at the thin manila envelope she had retrieved from the locker. She peeled away the tape and slid the contents onto her lap, wedging them up against the steering wheel. On top, there were two photos, a man and a woman. The man was a typical businessman in his gray suit. A little soft looking with a red blush to his cheeks. A drinker, Neeley thought. The woman was more interesting, sharp looking with blond hair and dark eyes. Neeley stared at the photos for a few moments, committing the details to memory.
    There was a third item in the envelope. A piece of notebook paper with Gant's handwriting scribbled across it.
     
    DEAREST
    THERE ARE THREE THINGS YOU MUST KNOW IN ORDER TO MAINTAIN THE DEAD TIME: WHO , WHAT AND WHY OF SOMETHING THAT HAPPENED YEARS AGO, JUST BEFORE I MET