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7:15 AM, August 4th. In Bedlam’s halls of power, nothing ever changed. On the streets, little ever stayed the same. It was about six in the morning that the first early commuters noticed that the front windows of Rothstein’s Jewelers were, for the first time in living memory, totally empty. Most of them just put their gaze right back down on the pavement; not their problem, not when they couldn’t afford breakfast and wouldn’t get dinner either if they missed their shifts. A few dared to wonder if the place had gone out of business, but that seemed odd. Not even the youth gangs spray painting swastikas on the façade had been able to drive Saul Rothstein out, and a man who at eighty-one could still pressure-wash them off personally seemed too lively to just up and die. It wasn’t until seven that someone thought it was odd enough to bother calling the police, and then only by dumb luck. Adam McConnell, who taught at Thaddeus Grissom High, had been saving up for almost seven months to buy that wedding ring in the center window display, and he came by every morning like clockwork to remind himself why he kept trying in a job that was killing him. He knew Saul personally; the old man had a grandkid at Grissom, and had cut almost half off the ring’s price just for Adam. He knew that Saul would die in that store if he had his way. Nothing else would make him close up. Police response time in Stark Hill, even at the edges, was about five minutes; the Bedlam PD actually cared about white folks, if no one else. But as far as they were concerned, Rothstein didn’t really qualify. They saw no reason to hurry if some Jew got himself robbed. So at 7:15 Adam was still the only person who had bothered to stop outside the store, increasingly worried not just about Saul but about losing his job if he didn’t show up by eight. The question kept running through his mind, though: why hadn’t any of Saul’s alarms been tripped?