the 13th Hour Read Online Free PDF

in the air growing, culminating in his stealing Dance's nine-millimeter and the entire moment hanging on the cusp of death.
And he remembered sitting in this room with Marcus for almost an hour, sipping scotch with the dull agony of Julia's loss tearing apart his heart. They'd sat in confusion and mourning. He remembered it all like a slow-winding film. Marcus had been sitting across from him, telling him everything would be all right, when the dark library door slowly swung open, and the two detectives stood in the doorway, grim looks on their faces, Shannon's hand resting atop his holstered pistol.
This was the room he had been arrested in, taken from in handcuffs at 9:00.
His memory seemed upside down, events falling in and out of order. Last he recalled, he was in the interrogation room. He remembered seeing the pictures of Julia, the ones Detective Shannon had shoved in his face, the ones that had brought him to the edge of sanity. He remembered grabbing the detective's gun, the Mexican standoff.
But he couldn't remember anything beyond the point of watching Shannon pull the trigger.
Nick shook his head as he closed the timepiece and tucked it back into his pocket.
He looked again at the envelope, praying that it would solve the multitude of questions running about in his mind. He tore it open, pulled out two sheets of off-white paper, and began to read.
Dear Nick,
I hope the fog is lifting from your mind though I'm sure it is
now being replaced by an even greater confusion as to what is
going on . . .
    N ICK READ THE two-page letter through three times. He folded it up and tucked it into his breast pocket, unsure what to make of it. He thought himself foolish for entertaining the idea, for allowing impossible hope to arise in his heart.
Somehow his mind was playing tricks on him.
The pictures of Julia's dead body that Detective Shannon had shoved in his face were so real, his mind and soul so wounded, Nick thought he was now surely succumbing to the loss of his sanity, to some fantasy, to wishful thinking. He felt trapped in a dream and willed himself to awaken.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew the watch that the letter spoke of, that the European man had given him in the interrogation room. Flipping it open, he stared at the Roman numerals.
Despite the doubt that coursed through his mind, despite the impossibility of it all, there was no question about where he stood at this moment, no question about the time on the watch face.
Nick had sat in this very room already, sipping scotch with Marcus, mourning Julia's death. It wasn't some figment of his imagination, some daydream. His tears were real, the pain in his heart was real, Marcus's comforting words still rang in his ears.
And the interrogation room at the Byram Hills Police Station, sitting there enduring Dance's questioning, staring at the weapon that stole Julia away from him; the photos, the harsh reality shoved before his eyes by detective Robert Shannon at 9:58 P.M. , it was all real. And there was no doubt about the time, the wire-caged clock on the wall having been his main focus for the nine minutes leading up to 10:00.
Yet here he stood, staring at the small black hands of the watch, a timepiece that looked to be over one hundred years old, that appeared in perfect working order, that read 8:15.
Nick picked up the remote from the antique captain's desk and pointed it at the TV, where the images of more death and devastation flashed up like a horror movie.
There was no question about the magnitude of the tragedy before his eyes, tragedy that all could relate to, a story that would transfix the country for days to come. And while he realized that much of the world was crying for the passengers of North East Air Flight 502, only he was crying for Julia.
So in a moment of illogical reasoning, entertaining the possibility of what the letter said, he thought, What if? He had nothing to lose and everything to gain. If he accepted the words of the letter