Drowning Instinct by Ilsa J. Bick Read Free Book Online Page B

outcome. On the watch glass, the vapors dissipated. It‘s still hexane and it‘s no less volatile, but you get a nice, controlled burn. Yet ignite that same hexane in an environment from which the vapors can‘t escape, and now you‘ll get an explosion, no less beautiful,‖
    Mr. Anderson said, ―but deadly.‖

    10: a

    The thing about starting school a week before Labor Day is you go to school for four days and then you have a long weekend. There‘s no time to get into any kind of groove, and the next week‘s going to be short, too. So you‘re all, I don‘t know . . .
    discombobulated. At least I was. If I were normal and had, oh, a social life, I‘d be as thrilled as every other girl not to be in school that next Monday. Instead, I got dragged along on our monthly guilt-pilgrimage to see my grandpa.

    Well, it‘s not like I was ever like any other girl anyway.

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    ―Stephie, honey.‖ Even before the fire, Grandpa MacAllister— husband of my nutty, sex-crazed grandmother—was a gargoyle, with his beaky nose and bright, button-black eyes. The whole left side of his face was drippy now, like molten candle wax, because of a stroke he‘d had in the ICU. The good news was, most of the time, he didn‘t know who I was. He‘d mistake me for Grandma Stephie or Aunt Betsy, my mom‘s sister who‘d wisely moved to England and never came home, or someone named Helen, a woman no one knew. (Given the leer on Grandpa‘s face I was happy not knowing.) That Grandpa sometimes thought I was his wife—Mom‘s mom—drove Mom up a tree. ―Stephie, you bring me a carton of those Camels I asked for?‖

    ―Dad,‖ my mom said wearily. She looked up from the windowsill where she was perched with her Crackberry and studying the store‘s spreadsheets. I don‘t know why she bothered to call what she did ―visiting.‖ ―Mom‘s dead. That‘s Jenna . . . your granddaughter?‖

    ―Don‘t you tell me what‘s what, Betsy.‖ Grandpa‘s lips puckered to a wet, fleshy, liverish rosebud. A permanent trail of drool slicked the left corner of his mouth down to his jaw. ―You think I don‘t know my own wife?‖

    ―It‘s like I keep telling you,‖ my father said. He was standing on the threshold of Grandpa‘s room, either because the air was better there or he could bolt that much faster.
    ―They‘ve got to up his meds.‖

    My mom ignored him. ―I‘m Emily, Dad. Betsy‘s in Greenwich. Mom‘s dead, remember? She hanged herself in the hotel?‖

    ―Don‘t I know it.‖ Grandpa‘s face darkened and his gnarled fingers tugged at a fleshy wattle under his chin. Grandpa was Wisconsin-farmer stock. Of all the various . . . ah
    . . . life-forms she screwed, Grandma never wrote about her husband. Maybe when Grandma was young and famous and they were still rich (before Grandpa drank or gambled the rest away), he‘d cleaned up pretty good. When they met, she was twenty-five, but he was over forty, widowed once and already boozy. So maybe he left her alone, never screwed her much, loved his vodka better. . . . I don‘t know. If he couldn‘t get it up, Grandma might‘ve been relieved.

    Anyway. Since the stroke, a lot of Grandpa‘s meanness poked through, like the skin of the mask he wore was sloughing off, leaving just the snake.

    He said, ―Left me her goddamned mess to clean up like she always did. I‘ll bet those maids couldn‘t get the stink of her shit out of the carpet for weeks.‖

    ―I‘m telling you.‖ My father rocked back and forth on his heels. ―Meds.‖

    Mom glared. ―Would you shut up? You wouldn‘t be like this if it was your father.‖

    ―My father would never be like him.‖

    Grandpa squinted at me. ―What‘s wrong with those two, Stephie?‖

    ―I don‘t know, Max,‖ I said.

    ―Jenna, I wish you wouldn‘t do that,‖ Mom said.

    ―Oh, what‘s the harm?‖ Dad said. ―You think he‘s going to remember this in five minutes?‖

    ―It‘s not respectful,‖ Mom said.

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