My hand stopped dead on the black plastic knob, the edge of the wheel digging hard into my palm.

I reached up with my left hand and pressed my palm flat against the glowing screen, covering the black letters of that name.

I copied the address off the bottom of the tax printout onto a paper napkin and walked two blocks down to the diner on Elm Street.

The woman in the end booth was Clara Vance, no relation to Carl, and she had lived right next door to Thomas and Martha Rountree for forty years.

She put her glass of iced tea down on the paper placemat and pushed up her red plastic frames.