There is a house in New Orleans, they call the Rising Sun …
She couldn't get it out of her head, it was woven into the shutter-fast snapshots of snow and tree and the twisted up expression of the old man, playing on and on, that rolling guitar melody driving her nuts …
… they didn't look like regular people, she thought. Not like criminals really, either. They looked like young soldiers, who'd been on the front too long …
The sun broke over the horizon as she stared at the house, dazzling light bringing painful clarity.
David hadn't died.