At his feet, on the weathered deck, are wet blotches from the tears he can't slap away fast enough. His voice is a low moan as he chokes out the words and lurches his way through the details.
As he tells this terrible story, Burke is sitting in the expansive backyard of his Toronto home, which overlooks one of the city's most beautiful ravines, maneuvering his cell phone on the patio table to show which way Brendan's car was facing when it crossed the center line.
