Page 25 of No Greater Oblivion

Every morning when he wakes up he’ll wonder where she is, if she’s alive, and if she’s coming home. And every night before he goes to bed he’ll blame himself for having ordered her to start the fire and wonder if it’s all his fault.

It will be a slow, steady, and torturous descent into remorse-fueled madness.

And that’s just the beginning.

Because by the time I’m done with him and his family, not even their graves will remember their names.

“Iwant you to tell me how it happened.” I say.

Dahlia looks up and sets down her bowl of half-eaten soup.

“What do you mean?”

“The fire. How did it start?”

She gives a light shrug, features coloring with confusion. “I don’t know…you tell me. Wasn’t it a gas leak?”

I consider my response with caution before replying. “We think so but it’s hard to tell with all the damage. The insurance company has been pestering us for more information. They just need someone to corroborate the story.”

“It’s been less than four days,” she says with a hint of indignation. “God, those vultures. Let me guess, they’re trying to get over on you guys?”

I nod. I lie. “Something like that.”

“It happened quickly. I went to close the back door when I thought I heard someone, which, obviously was Silvie,” she explains. “Then there was…I don’t know. Maybe there wasn’t…”

“Wasn’t what?”

“A clicking sound. Well, more like a single click. Like when you flip a light switch or drop a poker chip on the table. After that I don’t remember anything else…”

Her brows furrow and I can see the distress in her eyes as she struggles to conjure up details that don’t exist. The click she heard must’ve been the timer used on the gas line. I haven’t been to the lounge yet myself but from what Dimitrio tells me, the place is in shambles. The damage is such that it’ll be almost impossible to determine the exact cause but we know it started in the kitchens and Frida got in through the backdoor, which was left open by either happenstance or intentionally. Silvie will be dealt with later. Right now my focus is piecing together a coherent narrative.

“We don’t have to talk about it anymore. I’m sorry.” I graze her cheek with the back of my knuckles. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset.” She takes my bandaged hand in both of hers and seemingly remembering my injury, tries to pull away but I don’t let her. I hold on as tight as I’m able to. “At least, not for the reasons you think I am. I can’t believe the lounge is gone…is it really that bad?”

“Dimitrio says it’s almost unrecognizable. Only the bare bones are left. It’s a miracle the fire didn’t claim the building next door.”

Her breath catches. “Oh my God, I feel terrible. I completely forgot about Dimitrio.”

“What about Dimitrio?”

“He was living in the apartment upstairs right? Where is he staying?”

“At present, in our house. I know I didn’t ask you first but⁠—”

“Of course Dimitrio can stay. Hell, he can live there if he wants. He’s head of security. Come to think of it, he probably should.”

I study her a moment. “You’ll open the doors to your home to just about anyone, won’t you?”

“Our home and yes. To anyone who needs it. Why not? The place is huge and we don’t need all that space. Besides, Dimitrio’s like family.”

If she only knew how true that statement was.

“How are your hands?”

“Fine. I can hardly feel them.”

She takes note of the medical grade gloves the doctor insist I wear. They’re hideous and look like batting gloves. I might’ve been able to talk my way out of them if I hadn’t been foolish enough to let the doctor examine me in Dahlia’s room. She’s being discharged this afternoon and my hope is that with her bedridden and unable to walk with a broken ankle, my inconsistency with these oversized monstrosities will go unnoticed. I’ll simply wear them in the morning before I leave and put them back on when I get home…