Excerpt 1: From Chapter 1:
A sigh near her right ear made her flinch. Could there be an old steam radiator behind the wall making those sounds? No time now to investigate.

She turned off the lights, opened the door and backed into the hallway, key in hand. Sensing movement close behind her, she spun around once again. No one there. Yet the prickly sensation lingered as though someone was watching her.

“Natalie?”

There, a few feet away, a tall slender man had just exited a door she’d never seen before. In chino shorts and a polo shirt, he looked like he was heading out for a round of golf.

“You’re not Natalie,” he said, his head tilting to the side – a human question mark. 

He studied her as she studied him. He was a good-looking Asian-American guy with dark hair – a little spiky on top – and large, inquisitive eyes. More European than Asian, she decided.

He pulled his door to, triggering a soft buzz and a click as the door locked.

“You must be Natalie’s younger sister? A niece?”

She had no clue what he was talking about or why he was standing beside a door that didn’t exist yesterday. What the hell!

Squinting in the bright light, she was baffled to find the hallway transformed. The antique ceiling globes were gone, replaced by modern light fixtures. The deep green walls were now pale cream and the wainscoting had been removed. Plus, the hallway was longer now with eight doors instead of four.

“I didn’t know she had company,” he said, as though trying not to alarm her. “I live here in one eleven.” He gestured at the door from which he’d emerged. “The name is Ian.”

She glanced from his door to hers, discovering the heavy wooden door to her apartment had been replaced with a smooth white door. No beveled panels, no woodgrains.

Was this a virtual reality projection? If so, it was the most realistic VR she’d ever seen. Must be Hawke’s idea of a prank. She would kill him later. Pranks were not welcome on what could be the most important day of her life. Right now she had to get going.

She gripped her key, ready to lock the door and be on her way. But the doorknob no longer had a keyhole. 

The man moved closer. He seemed so real! This was like an amazing hologram. Where was the projector? 

Touching the door, it was the same as the door her eyes were seeing – smooth and featureless. And the doorknob definitely had no keyhole.

“There’s a keypad,” the man said, pointing.

She couldn’t resist touching his arm, but yanked her hand away like she’d burned her finger. Not virtual reality.

His expression turned wary, as if he was standing too close to a buffalo in Yellowstone Park that was about to gore him.

So if this wasn’t a virtual reality gag, then where was she? And how did she get here? This was not the converted mansion she lived in. 

“I don’t have time for this!” she cried.

Excerpt 2: From Chapter 1
Despite her best efforts to ignore the mounting evidence, she could no longer deny that she was now filling her lungs with air thirty years in the future. Which meant those thirty years were gone. Not gone like they would be if she’d coasted along day by day as time slipped away. No, those thirty years were gone like she’d never lived them at all. In point of fact, she had not lived them. Her hair was still strawberry blonde. There were no wrinkles creasing her face. No arthritis in her knees. She was a thirty-one year old woman. If she’d arrived in 2054 in the usual manner, she’d be sixty-one. She was used to improvising – handling whatever was thrown in her path – but this? She couldn’t wrap her head around this incredible turn of events. Incredible in the original sense of the word – too extraordinary to be believed, not possible. The very idea of traveling through time was outlandish, ridiculously sci-fi. It made her feel unsteady, like she’d lost her grip on a whirling merry-go-round to be flung off into the distance, landing in uncharted territory.

She snuck a glance at him as he sipped his water. If he was perturbed by the evening’s events, you couldn’t tell by looking at him. Perhaps he wasn’t waiting for her to explain. From all she’d seen, he was a good guy. It was possible he was sitting there to provide a sympathetic ear. But she didn’t want to talk. Instead, she let her eyes wander around his apartment, which was even smaller than hers. 

Funny, the room was done in grey and tan, like the exterior of the building. Grey walls, tan rug, grey sofa, tan chairs. Unlike the exterior, there were splashes of blue and green, which added some human warmth. Hanging on the walls was evidence that a music lover lived here – a couple of framed album covers by performers she didn’t recognize, along with an old acoustic guitar and a brass Zildjian crash cymbal.

He cleared his throat softly as if alerting her that he was about to speak.

“You know,” he began, his voice reminding her of a cup of honey lavender tea, “when I first saw you, I mistook you for Natalie. You don’t truly look alike, but you both have long blonde hair, although hers is darker.”

She lifted her glass, needing to wet her throat.

“Then,” he went on, “I had you pegged for a burglar who’d broken into Natalie’s apartment. But you stomped around trying to figure out where you were rather than escaping with your haul, so I tossed the burglar theory. Next, I was convinced you must have mental problems. You were doing some crazy stuff, like touching my arm as if checking to see if I was real, and then there was all that business about the Triple Vee.” He paused, gauging her reaction. “I discarded that theory too. My gut tells me you’re sane, that something genuinely weird happened to you.” He chuckled. “Although, who knows, I could be wrong.”