She carried the box down the back stairs and out into the lot, where the air had gotten cold enough to see her breath, and the box was heavier than she’d expected.

Halfway to the car she stopped and set it on the hood, because the corner was digging into her forearm and the clock had begun to slide.

Her phone buzzed against the cardboard.

It was Ruth Cole.

At seven o’clock the cardboard box sat unopened on the kitchen counter while Claire spread four telephone technical manuals out across her dining table.

Investigator Ruth Cole put a cold mug of black coffee down next to the pile of central office printouts.