Kenny Zale clomped over to me. I went to grade school with Kenny, and for a while in high school dated his older brother, Mickey. Kenny was a fireman now. He was dressed in boots and black bunker pants, and his face was grimy with sweat and soot.

"Looks like you visited my apartment," I said to Kenny.

"Maybe you should think about getting a different job."

"How bad is it?"

"The bedroom's gone. That's where it started. Looks to me like someone pitched a firebomb through your window. The bathroom is salvageable. The living room is pretty much trashed. The kitchen will probably be okay when it gets cleaned up. You'll need new flooring. Probably have to paint. There's a lot of water damage."

"Can I get in?"

"Yeah. This would be a good time. The fire marshal's up there now. He'll probably walk you through to let you get what you can, and then he'll seal it until the investigation's over and he's sure it's safe."

"John Petrucci still the fire marshal?"

"Yeah. You're probably on intimate terms."

"We've spent some time together. I wouldn't say we were intimate."

He grinned and ruffled my hair. "I'm glad you weren't in bed when this happened. You'd be toast."

I left Rex with Mrs. Karwatt, ran the stairs and worked my way through the crush of people in the hall. The area around my apartment was water soaked and sooty. The air was acrid. I looked through the door and my heart contracted. The destruction was numbing. The walls were black, the windows broken, the furniture unrecognizable as anything other than drenched, charred rubble.

I'm a firm believer in denial. My reasoning is why deal with unpleasantness today when you could get hit by a bus tomorrow. And if you procrastinate long enough, maybe the issue will go away. Unfortunately, this issue wasn't going away. This issue was beyond denial. This issue was fucking depressing.

"Shit!" I shrieked. "Shit, shit, shit, shit!"

Everyone on the floor stopped what they were doing and stared at me.

"Okay," I said. "I feel better now." It was a lie, of course, but it felt good to say.

Petrucci walked over. "You got any idea who did this?"

"No. Do you?" Another lie. I had a few ideas.

"Somebody with a pretty good arm."

That could be Maxine. The softball star. But it still felt wrong. It felt more like mob . . . like Joe's pal, Terry.

I gingerly stepped into the kitchen. The brown bear cookie jar was untouched. The phone looked okay. The soot and water were pervasive and depressing. I bit down hard on my lip. I wasn't going to cry. Rex was safe. Everything else was replaceable, I told myself.

We went room by room, and not much was salvageable. A few cosmetics that had been in the bathroom and a hair dryer. I put them in a bag from the kitchen.