Miles was into creating the second story of his block fort. This was dispelled by the quick and surprisingly chilling spark on the far side of her eyelids. She looked ten years younger than other mothers the same age. At first she imagined an earthquake. The second time around, that had been a challenge. Little existed of the truth. In his line of work, success was its own penalty. No sense in making things worse.
She kept herself trim and fit. Boldt croaked out a hello. But before she died she visited hell, a place that Dorothy Enwright did not belong. Yet there he was, a little overweight, a little gray at the temples, feeling a little anxious, speeding the department-issue beat-up Chevy toward the address he had scribbled on a sheet of notepaper torn from a pad given to him as a Christmas stocking present. The two seldom mixed, and when they did it was always- always , he emphasized to himself silently-one or more firefighters. Boldt took down the address and hung up. The truth, like the home of Dorothy Enwright and Dorothy herself, had gone up in smoke, destroyed beyond recognition. It began as a strange growling sound deep within the walls. It ran like a liquid through the place, stopping at nothing, feeding on everything in its path, irreverent and unforgiving. Little existed of the truth. She glanced over at her husband. In his line of work, success was its own penalty. No sense in making things worse. It refinished and then devoured the desk she had bought at a weekend flea market, a desk she had stripped of its ugly green paint and lovingly resurfaced with a trans parent plastic coating guaranteed by the manufacturer to last thirty years. He had been off-duty at the time of the call. But Boldt was not easily moved. This was dispelled by the quick and surprisingly chilling spark on the far side of her eyelids. Its ghost, spilled out like entrails, blanketed most of Wallingford, settling down onto Lake Union as a thin, wispy fog. Boldt had worked that case as well. The Pang fire had been the most recent and the worst: It burned off her hair, the skin on her face-and she went over backward, her throat seared, unable to scream. Someone had torched a building. Miles was occupied by a set of blocks in the corner. Miles was into creating the second story of his block fort. Elizabeth, who would be forty in March, passed her husband the receiver and released a huge sigh to make a point of her disgust at the way his police work interfered with their lives.
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