A. Kriss, it read, 777 Dowling Ave., Everett, WA.

Nothing in the notes suggested where he’d gotten the address, but it occurred to me it could be Dr. Kriss’s mother, or some other relative.

Then the shredding was over. Soon I’d go and spread these scraps through the city too, but first I poured a glass of wine and crawled out on the scaffolding.

The sun cast a soft yellow glow as it set behind the sky’s humid skin. I’ll never forget the peace that came over me then, watching light stretch across the pavement, touch the tips of trees, catch the folds of skirts.

As I gazed down at the shadows slicing the light, a chilling breeze brought thoughts of Lane, but I thrust them away.

“You never had a choice,” I said aloud. “You had to give yourself a chance.”

Now find the story, tell the story, make it count for something.

THE HOUSES

1.

I called the office and told Mort I’d take that leave after all, that I needed time to stabilize before I could finish the piece. He was a little surprised that I wouldn’t be attending the funeral, but I said I couldn’t face Louise again—it had been too hard the first time. He understood, and said he hoped I’d have something for him soon.

I caught my flight to Tampa and drove down the Gulf coast in a blue Ford Focus. The tropical heat was beginning to feel like my true element, and I hurled myself into the task at hand. I was in Retreat to find Zeke, check on Sunshine Ray, and expose Dr. Kriss.

This time, I decided to stay in a motel about a half hour outside the city. I wanted to avoid crossing paths with anyone from Rubicon. I wasn’t sure where in the country Dr. Kriss currently was, but now I’d put it together that every time I saw or spoke with her, the ghost had a way of finding me.

As I drove through the south side, I noticed how Mayor Klausmeyer’s Retreat 2010 plan had accelerated. For one thing, I didn’t see many stray dogs. My notes from just months before contained packs sprinting along the roadside, but now they appeared, when at all, as eyes glinting in the deep shade, like a species on the edge of extinction.

The Glades was finished, about fifteen identical properties on the site. Each house boasted a hideous mélange of cascading gables, multistory windows, enormous columned porticoes. It seemed impossible that anyone would want to live here, but in fact the houses were already occupied. Men hosed down SUVs, toys were scattered on lawns, a Tampa Bay Buccaneers flag flew above the door of a garage. The place where we’d found Zeke bleeding was paved over. You’d never know things like that had happened here, that a whole community had been spread across this land.