One “Dad, you don’t understand.” “Mackenzie, enough.” Carrie Weston hurried through the lobby of her apartment complex. “Hold the elevator,” she called, making a dash for the open doors. Her arms were loaded with mail, groceries and decorations for her Christmas tree. It probably wasn’t a good idea to rush, since the two occupants appeared to be at odds—which could make for an awkward elevator ride—but her arms ached and she didn’t want to wait. Lack of patience had always been one of her weaknesses; equally lacking were several other notable virtues. The man kept the doors from closing. Carrie had noticed him earlier, and so had various other residents. There’d been plenty of speculation about the two latest additions to the apartment complex. “Thanks,” she said breathlessly. Her eyes met those of the teenager. The girl was around thirteen, Carrie guessed. They’d moved in a couple of weeks earlier, and from the scuttlebutt Carrie had heard, they’d only be staying until construction on their new home was complete. The elevator doors glided shut, as slowly as ever, but then the people who lived in the brick three-story building off Seattle’s Queen Anne Hill weren’t the type to rush. Carrie was the exception. “What floor?” the man asked. Carrie shifted her burdens and managed to slip her mail inside her grocery bag. “Second. Thanks.”