Chapter 8: The Cook

The boathouse roof had fallen in by the time we reached the Quay.

Firemen were hosing down the black timbers.

The air stank of diesel and wet ash.

I ran, and Corrado caught me by the elbow before I reached the tape.

"Stay with me."

"The cook," I said.

"She was in the kitchen."

"There," he said.

On the gravel by an ambulance sat the old woman in her man's cardigan, an oxygen mask over her face, scowling at everyone.

One of the young men stood beside her with his right hand wrapped in a bloody towel.

I dropped down on my knees in front of her.

"I'm fine," she said through the mask.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"You're not fine."

"I'm old and I'm angry," she said, "which is better."

"This one got me out through the window."

I looked up at the young man.

He grinned like his burned hand didn't hurt at all.

"She hit me with a frying pan on the way," he said.

"I thought it was the roof."

"You were slow," the cook said.

I laughed, and then I was crying, and the old woman patted my face with a hand that smelled of smoke.

"Don't waste it on me."

"Save it for the right people."

The paramedics loaded her into the ambulance, and she pointed a finger at Corrado until the doors closed.

Keep reading free with an account. Start Why Cry When You Made Me Leave? from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.