On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town. ” “It is hard to be distant from your own mother. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. "Did I hear you …" began McClintock. It was now a quarter past twelve. “Thank you.
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