"Fielding, Joy - Lost" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fielding Joy)

His efforts on my behalf were truly heroic.

To Maya Mavjee, John Neale, John Pearce, Stephanie Gowan, and the staff
at Doubleday Canada, a division of Random House, who have never flagged
in 4 their support. Our association has spanned many years and several
publishing upheavals, and I am both proud and happy we're still
together.

Lost is the first of my novels to be set in my hometown of Toronto, and
I realized as I was writing this book how much this beautiful city
means to me.

I am particularly indebted to Dr. Jim Cairns, the Deputy Chief Coroner
for the province of Ontario, and to Gord Walker in the dispatch
regional office for the time both so graciously took to answer my
questions and share their expertise. My thanks also to the Toronto
International Film Festival-the greatest film festival on earth-for
providing both the backdrop for this book, and also some of my greatest
film memories.

To my readers, again I thank you for your emails, your comments, and
your enthusiasm. And a special thanks to those of you who show up at
book signings. You make book tours worthwhile.

And lastly, to my family and friends, especially Warren, my amazing
husband of almost thirty years, and our beautiful and talented
daughters, Shannon and Annie. Without you, truly I would be lost.

ONE

THE morning began, as did so many of their mornings, with an
argument.

Later, when it was important to recall the precise order of events, the
way everything had spun so effortlessly out of control, Cindy would
struggle to remember what exactly she and her older daughter had been
fighting about. The dog, the shower, her niece's upcoming wedding-it
would all seem so mundane, so trivial, so unworthy of raised voices and
increased blood pressure. A blur of words that blew past their heads
like a sudden storm, scattering debris but leaving the foundation
intact. Nothing extraordinary to be sure. The start of an average
day. Or so it had seemed at the time.

(Images: Cindy, in the ratty, green-and-navy terry-cloth bathrobe she'd
bought just after Tom left, towel-drying her chin length brown hair as
she emerges from her bedroom; Julia at the opposite end of the wide
upstairs hall, wrapped in a yellow-and-white-striped towel, pacing back
and forth in front of the bathroom between her room and her sister's,
impatience bubbling like lava from a volcano inside her reed-thin,
six-foot frame; Elvis, the perpetually scruffy, apricot-colored Wheaten