Dancing on the Head of a Pin Read Online Free PDF

thoughts of the past, but at the same time embraced them like a long-lost friend.
    Or lover.
    The sudden banging on his office door removed him from the moment, and his anger surged. He could actually feel his true nature writhe in preparation, as if it expected to be unleashed.
    Not good. Not good at all.
    “Yeah,” Remy said as the door swung open and one of the subjects of his recent neglect ambled in, bags in hand.
    “Look who decided to come to work today,” the gruff homicide detective said as he placed the two bags he was carrying on the corner of Remy’s desk and returned to the door to close it. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
    There would be time for the memories later, whether Remy wanted them or not.
    “No, it’s good. Sorry I missed you last night.”
    Mulvehill started to rummage through one of the bags. “Had a bottle of Glenlivet with our names on it, but since you weren’t around, I had to cross yours off,” he said, removing a large coffee and placing it in front of Remy. “I felt really bad, but I didn’t want it to spoil.”
    He removed one for himself and smiled. He lifted the plastic lid and took a sip from the scalding liquid. “Your loss, I guess.”
    “My loss,” Remy repeated as he removed the cover from his own coffee.
    His friend looked as he always did, tousled black hair, five-o’clock shadow, clothes wrinkled as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and with Steven, that very well could have been the case. He lived the job, not really having much else.
    Mulvehill removed his light spring jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the door. “So where were you last night? Working a case?”
    He pulled out the seat in front of Remy’s desk and sat down, but before he relaxed, he reached for the other bag.
    The dying angel appeared within Remy’s brain, the empty eye sockets like twin whirlpools trying to suck him down, further into despair.
    “Yeah, pretty much wrapped it up last night.”
    “Cheese Danish?” Mulvehill offered, pastry in hand. “I got an apple one in here too.”
    “No, thanks,” Remy said. “The coffee is all I want.”
    Mulvehill shook his head in mock disgust. “And you wonder why I’m not as svelte as I used to be.” He took an enormous bite from the pastry, crumbs raining down onto the front of his shirt and pants. He then wrinkled the top of the wax paper bag closed, and placed it on the floor beside his chair.
    “I’ll save the other one for later,” he told his friend, retrieving his coffee cup from the desk. “Playing catch-up?” he asked, motioning with the Danish toward the pile of mail.
    “Yeah,” Remy answered, flipping through some of it. “Amazing how quick it piles up.”
    The cop nodded, slowly chewing. There was an uneasy silence starting to develop, something completely unfamiliar to their friendship, and Remy had an idea as to where the conversation would be going next.
    “How are you doing?” Mulvehill finally asked.
    Remy nodded, slowly turning the paper cup on his desktop. “I’m doing all right,” he said, trying to sound convincing.
    “Yah think?” Mulvehill responded, shoving the last of the Danish into his mouth, and brushing the crumbs from the front of his shirt onto the floor.
    “Yeah, I think,” Remy answered, unable to hide the beginning of annoyance in his tone.
    “Haven’t seen you in weeks. Every time I stop by the office or your house you’re not there. I just wouldn’t have a clue if you were doing good or not,” Mulvehill explained, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs.
    “I’ve been trying to keep busy,” Remy said.
    He could feel the detective’s eyes scrutinizing him, searching for signs that things were not okay at all. Remy doubted that he would need to look all that closely.
    “Why don’t you cut the shit and tell me the truth.”
    Remy glared at his friend, the power of Heaven writhing at his core. It wanted to be free—it wanted to destroy what offended it.
    “Do