It all started with a black rose and a rich young man. And a house with a creek running through it. And then there she was, Kip Flynn, standing beside her dead boyfriend and agreeing to take a large sum of money from the young man's father to keep quiet. As if she could have done anything else, she was so scared and grief-stricken and maybe pregnant.
But that’s not the end of it. You see, there’s some kind of connection between Kip and this rich developer’s son that keeps them tight in one another’s orbit. So, when Kip awakens from her grief, intent on revenge, they find themselves pursuing one another with a ferocity they can barely understand, one that spirals outward, with subway accidents and arson and drainpipes and backhoe wars, to envelop roommates, two guilty fathers, a window-washer or two, landlords, family secrets, Vietnamese gangsters, a standup-bass player and an activist tour guide. And even the subterranean heart of Toronto itself, which, like Kip, is torn between vengefulness and growth.
