Allison Titus

The Arsonist's Song Has Nothing to Do with Fire Allison Titus

On the morning of the day she died, Vivian Foster woke earlier than usual, woke to dim half-light, slung down clouds fat with impending rain, the shrieking push cart sounds of the limping bottle collector, the pigeons' scuffed purrs rummaged up from the alley. She is survived by was where she faltered, no heir, no indebted, no lover to claim--but she thought her obituary through every night anyway. Worried over all the mechanics of the evered this and evered that. A bad habit. The bargain for a last resort: If all else failed/If it couldn't get any worse.

Shortly after arriving at the house of her newest client -- a woman whose ornithologist husband has gone missing -- professional house-sitter Vivian Foster finds herself inextricably linked to a neighborhood arsonist and a radical plastic surgeon whose secret mission is to build wings for humans.