Rules of Desperation

Nicholas Burr would never forget the first time he wanted to kill his wife.

He didn’t picture himself as a violent man, but sometimes, things just spun out of control. And once set in motion, such a thing can be difficult to stop.

Who could ever really say what triggered it? Perhaps it was something unrelated, like how the clouds hung low and blocked the sunlight. Nicholas sniffed the air, studying the row of small townhouses facing the street, two dozen identical soldiers standing at attention. He could smell smoke. Twenty-four different dwellings, each one the same: a narrow, solitary bedroom with a bath the size of a cracker box and a living room that would fit in your back pocket. Yet, one positive feature was a fully functioning gas fireplace ideal for taking the chill off on those wintry Michigan nights.

Nicholas stopped on the porch and sniffed again.  Yes, it was definitely smoke. Someone was burning paper. He turned the key and limped inside. The apartment was dark, the shades drawn. His eyes landed on the fireplace. It was glowing as he pushed the door shut. Why would Camille have a fire today? It was April and almost sixty degrees outside.

"What's burning?"

"Sure as hell isn't me." Camille's voice came from the corner of the room where they kept the few liquor bottles and the cabinet with his manuscripts.