Dancing on the Head of a Pin Read Online Free PDF Page B

you want to hear that I’m miserable?” he asked. “That when she died a large piece of myself died with her? Is that what you want to hear?”
    “I want to hear the truth,” Mulvehill responded. “Call it a side effect of my job. Since Maddie passed you’re not the same; there’s something not right.”
    Remy brought the cup of coffee up toward his mouth. “It’s to be expected,” he said, taking a long drink. It was hot, burning hot. It felt good to feel something other than sadness.
    “With most folks, yeah, but with you it’s different. You’re not the same person anymore, and that’s really sad.”
    Remy set his cup down. “Who am I, then?” he asked, directing the question as much to himself as to his friend. “Maybe when she died Remy Chandler died with her, and this is the new guy who got left behind.”
    Everything grew very quiet, the emotion suddenly so thick that it was almost difficult to breathe.
    “Any chance of the old guy coming back?”
    “Why, does he owe you money?” Remy joked, trying to lighten the mood.
    The scruffy man shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “Just pure selfishness on my part. I’m not ready to say good-bye to him yet.”
    “I hear he’s been going through some pretty rough shit,” Remy said as he picked up his cup, looking inside at what remained of the contents. He finished what was left and grimaced at the bitter end.
    “Thought I heard something to that effect,” Mulvehill said, moving to the edge of his chair to retrieve the empty bag from the floor. He put his own empty coffee cup inside it. “I hope he swings around again sometime soon so I can tell him that he’s not alone in this, that he has people who give a shit about how he’s feeling, and what he’s going through.”
    Remy wheeled his chair closer to the barrel where he’d recently disposed of his plant. “I’m sure he’s aware of that already, but it doesn’t hurt to tell him again.” He threw away his coffee cup.
    “Yeah,” Mulvehill said, rising from his seat. “He’s kind of thick like that.”
    The detective retrieved the bag containing the apple pastry and crinkled the top tighter. “Sure you don’t want this?” he asked.
    Remy shook his head. “I’m good.”
    Mulvehill accepted this, walking across the office to the coat rack for his jacket.
    “So if you should see him,” he began.
    Remy looked up from an electric bill he’d retrieved from the pile, at first confused.
    “Our mutual friend, the one we were just discussing?” Mulvehill clarified. “If you should see him, pass on that I wish him only the best.”
    He adjusted the collar on the jacket and, satisfied that he was presentable, opened the door to leave.
    “And that I really miss her too,” he added as he left, closing the door behind him.

CHAPTER THREE
    R emy stood before his wife’s grave, as he’d done so many times since she’d left him.
    He had managed to make it through all the mail and even returned a few phone calls before deciding not to push his luck. He’d stopped at home to pick up Marlowe, then headed for the cemetery.
    A thin, snaking vine clung to the face of the marble grave marker, the delicate purple flowers that grew from the vine embellishing her name.
    MADELINE CHANDLER: BELOVED.
    It always stunned him how beautiful it was, no matter the season; there were always flowers of various colors and sizes growing on and around the grave, a gift of gratitude from Israfil, the Angel of Death, for Remy’s assistance in keeping the world from ending.
    “Hey there, beautiful,” Remy said, kneeling upon the thick green grass. He reached out, letting his fingers brush the engraving of her name.
    He knew that she wasn’t there with him, for when she had passed from life, her essence—her soul—had joined with countless others, as had been done since creation, to become part of the very fabric of the universe.
    To become part of the Source.
    He of all people knew how it worked, but he liked