Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. He would raise her up once again, ply her with silks and jewels again, all of the accoutrements of the new generation: the cars, the toys, the restaurants, and the prestige. “I think that it is only an idea. I’d rather not go,” she added. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. As they passed beneath the thick trees that shade the road to Dollis Hill, the gloom was almost impenetrable.
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