Dying for Chocolate Read Online Free PDF Page B

he sped up, as if to get away.
    The Thunderbird stalled in the snowy mud.
    I leaned on the horn and lowered my window all the way. Cold feathers of snow pricked my face.
    “Philip!” I screamed. “Come back!”
    Speeding up again, the BMW bumped and rocked southbound down 24. In the right lane I could see a black Porsche passing a silver bus. I took a deep breath and turned the key in the ignition. If I could hit Philip from behind, maybe he would stop.
    A Ford is not a BMW. The Thunderbird started with a jolt. I gunned it forward and hit a utility pole with the right front headlight. With all the snow, I hadn’t even seen it. A dull pain shot up my spine. When I looked back at the road, Philip was speeding down the left lane on a collision course with the bus. Leaving bells and whistles whining, I unstrapped my seat belt and jumped from the car.
    “Stop!” I yelled through the curtains of snow. “Stop!”
    But he did not. The Porsche and the bus honked. The Porsche driver careened onto the shoulder. A wall of snow sprayed upward. The Porsche’s brakes screamed. Still the BMW raced forward. The bus driver leaned on the horn. Philip heard the honk and braked, then hit the gravel on the left shoulder. The BMW went into a wild skid.
    The bus slammed into the BMW on the driver’s side. Glass shattered. Tires shrieked. I could hear the bus passengers screaming. The Porsche driver scrambled out. There’s no way, I thought as I ran, there’s just no way.
    My feet slid through the snow. Ahead the bus and Philip’s car stood motionless, smoking. My body whacked the BMW hood. The left front of the car was irreparably smashed. I looked through the broken glass, desperately hoping to see some movement.
    The top half of Philip’s body was at a skewed angle; he had been thrown back by the impact. His face and chest were splattered with blood and glass. The sunglasses were gone and his eyes were wide, red, empty. The bottom half of his body had disappeared below the BMW’s crumpled metal.
    “Call an ambulance!” I shrieked at the bus driver.
    But I knew. I just couldn’t accept it. I couldn’t look back at him. I couldn’t think of anything, couldn’t see or hear anything, only knew one thing.
    Philip was dead.

4.
    Slow motion, fast motion. Time splintered.
    Fast: People moved back and forth. Back and forth. They asked questions and called to me, as if I were at the bottom of a very deep well. A man pulled me back when I tried to tug open the BMW door. I ripped away from him and started to run. A gentle set of hands guided me away and draped a blanket over my hair and shoulders, protection from the snow. A man and a woman put out flares. Directed traffic. Motioned the police car over.
    In slow motion: The snow fell. The BMW smoked. Behind the car’s dark glass the body did not move.
    In the midst of life we are in death . . .
    A policeman spoke my name. His voice was far away. I looked at him through eyes that seemed not mine. I cupped my hands and blew into them.
    He said, “Just a few questions, if you can manage it.”
    Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts . . .
    I nodded and followed him, slowly, slowly. The BMW was behind me now. I was leaving Philip to strangers, foreign men in suits who would make their decree. It was unbearable.
    My name again. Yes. I got into the patrol car. I tried to focus on the policeman, but Philip’s face invaded my mind. Could you describe what happened? Yes. Even then something inside said: I can describe it. What I can’t do is explain it.
    Outside the car, snow fell like soft feathers, sticking in some places, melting in others. When I tried to think of what I was going to do with Adele’s T-bird, I would see the back of Philip’s car, see the black smoke belching, see his forehead and cheeks sprayed with blood.
    The ambulance came. Paramedics splashed through the mud. Someone brought me a paper cup of coffee, told the cop the EMS guys had hooked the victim up to a