The fire engine races as fast as my heart through the dark, snow-banked streets, sirens shrieking.
Still I see his blackened shell, red eyes pitted inside a face twisted with madness and malice. Still he is with me. But I couldn’t tell the shrink that because I have to keep going. If I don’t get back out there and do this now, my career is over. And the memories will be there to haunt me just the same.[…]
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I am no storyteller, but I photograph my wife every day.
One of my favorite photos of Anne shows her sitting on our bed, face stretched and beaming, with the little white pregnancy test stick in her hand. Her freckles glow in the picture. Her eyes jump at will between green and brown. Most indoor photos give them a darker tint, but not this snapshot. Her single dimple, left side, is deep and at its face-cheering best. Anne’s dark curls wear sun-bleached highlights because it dates to late summer, only six months before the first death in Vermeer Park.[…]
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“She’s not in,” I say. “She probably forgot all about it, I told you she’s flaky like that. Come on, let’s go. We can get something to eat on the way home. Pizza would be nice.”
Alan looks at my hand, which is gripping his elbow, and then at his finger, which is still on the doorbell. “It’s usually traditional to wait until the bell stops ringing before you decide nobody’s going to answer it.” […]
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