The Fire
I remember the last time that I was at her house. She had one of those Dimplex corner fireplaces roaring, radiating hot air over the hairy rug laid out on the floor in front of the fireplace. When I looked up into her dark brown eyes, I knew that I was going to have to be the one to tell her about her father’s grim past. The look in her eyes seemed to be provoking me to answer, what would happen next? I took a long sip from my glass, and began to speak. “You father is not who you think he is.”
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