Chapter One

When Uncle Jack died, he left Blaire and Keefe his house. It was a very up to date house with all the necessities.

What they found-out was that Uncle Jack, age 76 and cause of death liver failure, wasn't the old dodder that he first appeared as. He, in fact, was part of an experimental time-warp project. It closed after some of its personnel decided they liked where they were and didn't want to go back, thank you very much. In addition, the head of the project read about the butterfly-effect and had a panic attack. The responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders. He was carried blubbering from his office and retired to a small island off the coast of South America, after he got out of St. Boniface's Asylum. Uncle Jack never forgot about those days, and when Blaire and Keefe moved in after the mourning period was over, they found out he took more than just memories from that experience. He built his own time machine and they, the lucky people that they were, just moved in.

Blaire, age 26 and cause of death yet to be determined, bent over a small plate of gel. She studied it, her face falling into a frown as her eyes narrowed in concentration. Short lines in a column led to a pit at one end of the gel. She compared it to more short lines next to it, a heavily labeled suspect with lots of tape arrows pointing towards it. Her head whipped around and she glared at her brother. Keefe was sitting comfortably in an armchair, headphones stuck firmly in his ears. His eyes closed he appeared to be asleep. Blaire gave an "AHEM!", Keefe let out a theatrical snore. Blaire's face turned white with rage and she set her teeth. She gave a louder "AHEM!", Keefe blinked his eyes sleepily and yawned. He popped out his headphones and put the two pieces next to him. Blaire's right eye twitched. She could wait no longer. "I analyzed the DNA from the crime scene and -."

Keefe interrupted her, "Crime scene? Do you mean the honey in your comb?"

"Yes!"

Keefe settled back, "Just making sure."

Blaire looked at him suspiciously, and then continued, "Anyway, the DNA from the crime scene and my suspect's DNA match perfectly." She smiled evilly. Keefe nervously asked, "I thought the crime scene's DNA was incomplete?"

"I used PCR on it."

"Ah, English please."

"I did say it in English!"

"Kindergarten English."

Blaire said slowly, "I cloned it so that the DNA made two." There was a fruitful pause.

"…Explain it to me like I'm two."

Blaire exploded, "I can't dumb it down anymore!"

"Then I don't understand what you're talking about."

There was a longer fruitful pause. Blaire said carefully, "Understand this, your DNA matches the crime scene's DNA and I'm not happy about it. Comprendé?"

A few moments later Blaire had Keefe in a headlock and was trying her best to strangle him. She was growling, "You thought you could get away with it! 'DNA is incomplete'!" She said this in an unflattering voice. Keefe broke the hold and ran for it. He sprinted across the floor and down the stairway to the door. There were three keypads at shoulder-height and a large red button to the left of the door. Keefe hit the button, threw open the door and ran through. Blaire heavily breathed out, "Oh no you didn't!" She stared out the door into the thick gray fog. She crossed to the door and looked at the closest keypad. It was numbered zero to nine, and 1920 glowed in black numbers on the screen above it. She stares again out the door, "No you didn't."