Hidden in a toolbox, in the rafters of his four-car garage, was an envelope full of pictures taken by a private detective...They were pictures of a scrawny, boyish looking nine year old with a wide mouth and a tangle of brown hair...Her eyes were oblong and deep set, their color hidden from the camera by the slant of the sun. The angles and planes of her face were oddly beautiful just then, in that moment, frozen on Kodak paper. A hint of the woman she would someday become.

Mark nodded even though she couldn't see. He'd suddenly lost any desire to talk, and his plans for a perfect day washed away with the stream. The memories. They never let him go, not even for a half hour. They always had to rush back in, bringing all the horror.

He felt more crypts cracking open inside of him; the stench he smelled was not decayed bodies but decayed memories, and that was somehow worse.

There's no consciousness without senses and memories.

She'd been trained as a child no to trust anyone, but he'd just saved her life, and she was freezing. He could be a yeti for all she cared.

Oh my God, you're huge." She struggled to get her hands to the ends of the long sleeves. The garment hung to her knees. She glanced up to see his lips pressed together, like he was choking on a laugh. The corners of his eyes wee crinkled and amusement flickered in his heated gaze.