Disintegration Read Online Free Page B

was always familiar, plain, and far too old. That woman standing beside the oblong hole was an utter stranger, alone and futureless, unconnected to the flesh she had created and nurtured.
    The escape was all too brief, and the wind pulled her spirit back into her body, or the illusion dissolved, or the dissociative episode of grief ended. And all that was left was the coffin swinging from the end of the chain like the tool of a brutal hypnotist.
    Dishes. She plunged her hands back into the soapy water. The plates needed to sparkle like those in detergent commercials. Out, out, damned spots.
    There was a knock on the door. She hadn't had a visitor in several days, when the last of her friends had paid their obligatory sympathies. Her best girlfriend Kim, who knew secrets about her that even Jacob hadn't plumbed, had resigned herself to the fact that Renee wanted to get through it on her own. A stubborn blonde, that's what Kim had called her, and if she ever needed a shoulder to cry on, give a call. Otherwise, here's a casserole and don't hurry about returning the dish.
    Renee dried her hands on a towel that was wrapped around the refrigerator handle. She didn't want company right now. The house was a mess. No, "house" wasn't the right word, house had connotations of home, and what had once been her home was now a heap of dark, dead ashes. This apartment wasn't home, it was a temporary sleep chamber of the soul.
    The knock came again, more insistent, authoritative. Be polite, she told herself. A good hostess. Mrs. Jacob Wells. She opened the door.
    It was Kingsboro's fire chief, stocky, dressed in an informal uniform of dark trousers and blue shirt. Her red hair was tied back but the sun caught some stray strands that glowed like firecracker fuses. Renee wondered if her hair color had led the woman to her career choice, the result of some homeopathic psychological pull. Or maybe she'd suffered some long-ago disaster of her own that had compelled her into public service.
    "Hello?"
    Renee had forgotten the woman's name, since their first meeting had been in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy. The Tragedy, with a capital
T
. That was how she referred to the night, both in forced conversation and in the hidden depths of her private thoughts. But now she saw the name above the badge, Davidson, and remembered they had spoken at some length, but couldn't recall a word either of them had said.
    "Davidson, Kingsboro Fire Department. Sorry to bother you again."
    "That's okay," Renee said, struggling to drive images of The Tragedy from her mind: the confusion as she rolled from the blankets, the stench of chemical smoke, the winking numerals of the alarm clock, Jacob's shouting, her attempt to follow him before the flames cut her off, the flight down the stairs, the descent into hell, the escape into night air, and then the continuing descent into a deeper hell.
    "I'd like to ask you a few more questions. May I come in?"
    Renee stood aside, and the sliding of the invisible mask over her face was an almost physical sensation. "Please excuse the mess. And wipe your feet."
    Davidson looked down at her boots, which she had wiped on the outdoor welcome mat. She wiped again, then once more on the carpeted rug inside. Renee led Davidson to the couch and sat across from her in the armchair. The apartment seemed too small.
    "First of all," Davidson said, "I'm sorry for your loss. If we'd had any chance for a rescue--"
    "I know. I'm sure you guys did everything you could. Nobody's blaming you." Because Renee bore all the blame, except for that one dark sliver she allowed Jacob.
    "I understand how difficult this is, but we need some more information to help us determine the cause."
    "You already have my statement."
    "Yes, ma'am. But that was made in what we like to call 'the heat of the moment.'" She smiled, but the expression on Renee's face made it fade fast. Davidson's voice shifted into an official monotone. "People sometimes remember things