More Than Ashes

me up, a thick, acrid sc

irens pierced the nig

dad's sous chef. "It' s the resta

the smell of burning wood and so

-out shell of "The Amber Hearth," my parents'

d only stare at the wreckage, the place

oe, my food critic girlfriend, in

e when nightmares struck. "We'll get

gas stove sent me stumbling in terror, and she quickly turned it of

r quiet anniversary dinner, again, for D

framing his alleged illness as a virt

ise, realizing I was just an obligatio

ve review of Daniel's new menu just dro

niversary. She wasn' t working; she was

; her entire compassionate faç

ruth filling her perfectly curated apartment: sh

you feel, then maybe you should

irming the sickening truth: I was just a convenient cover for

d away friends who tried

used into a chilling resolve. I wa

And now, armed with the brutal truth, I had