The fire went out, sending off columns of white smoke. Some time after—I still don't know how long—Robin and I were able to tour the damage, accompanied by a fireman with a flashlight who looked out for our safety but hung back, diplomatically, as we stumbled and cursed in the dark.

The garden and the rear half of the house were a total loss, the air still hot and bitter. The front rooms were sodden and putrid, ash filled, already moldering. I ran my hand along scorched furniture, fingered hot dust, looked at ruined art and decimated keepsakes, TV and stereo equipment that had blistered and burst. After a while it got too difficult. I pulled the paintings and prints that looked intact off the wall and made a neat stack. Short stack. My Bellows boxing print seemed to have come out okay, but the frame was blackened around the edges.

Robin was across the living room when I said, “I've got to get out of here.”

She gave a dull nod—more of a bow. We carried the art out and took it to the truck.

Beyond the vehicles, Milo and Gillespie were still conferring and a third man had joined them—young, chubby, balding, with bristly red hair. He held a pad and his writing hand was busy.

“Drew Seaver,” he said, holding out the other one. “Fire Department arson investigator. Detective Sturgis has been filling me in—sounds like you've really been through it. I'll have some questions for you, but they can wait a couple of days.”

Milo told him, “I'll get you whatever you need.”

“Fine,” said Seaver. “What's your insurance situation, doctor?”

As if cued, Captain Gillespie said, “Better be getting back—good luck, folks.”

When he was gone, Seaver repeated his insurance question.

I said, “I never really checked the details. I'm up to date on my premiums.”

“Well, that's good. Those insurance guys are real sonofa's, believe me. Dot your “i' wrong and they'll find a way not to pay you. You need any help with justification, just have 'em call me.”

He handed me his card. “That and a statement from Detective Sturgis should handle it.”

“What needs to be handled?” said Robin. “What do we need to justify?”

Seaver picked at his chin. His lips were thick, pink, and soft looking, with a natural turndown that made him look sad.

“Arson fires tend to be self-generated, Mrs. Delaware. In lots of cases, anyway. Like I said, insurance companies'll do anything not to pay up. First thing they're going to be assuming is you're behind this.”

“Then fuck 'em,” said Milo. To us: “Don't sweat it, I'll handle it.”

Seaver said, “Okay . . . well, better be looking around some more.” Cracking a brief smile, he left.