David Jackson - Marked

‘What’s up?’ he asks.

‘What’s up?’ she echoes. ‘Your daughter is what’s up.’

It doesn’t escape his notice that this has suddenly become a one-parent family.

‘What’s she done this time?’

‘She did it again, Cal. She put some stuff from the stationery closet in her bag. Only this time she was seen doing it by another child, and he told the teacher about it.’

‘Wait a minute. Are you sure about this? Maybe there’s been a mistake.’

‘How can there be a mistake? She was seen. Caught red-handed. It’s the kind of open-and-shut case police officers can only dream of.’

Doyle feels something inside himself sinking. He doesn’t want to believe this. Not of his own daughter.

‘What happened? When the teacher found out?’

‘I got called in, Cal. I spent an hour in the principal’s office this afternoon, desperately trying to defend our family name. Trying to assure them there was no great domestic upheaval taking place in our home. No divorce or terminal illness — that kind of thing. It was humiliating, Cal. And I still don’t know what to do about it. What the hell has gotten into that child?’

And now Doyle’s mind is racing again. Searching for explanations. Looking for reasons. Wondering what mistakes they may have made in the upbringing of their daughter. He can feel his stress levels building again.

He hasn’t even taken his coat off yet, he’s still dripping rainwater onto the floor, and already he’s wishing for this night to be over.

Home sweet home.

Too easy.

That young detective. LeBlanc. Thinking he can play me. Asking those dumb questions about my business just to put me at my ease. Acting like he’s my BFF so he can get me to talk.

Well, he got me to talk, all right. Not what he was expecting to hear, though, was it?

He fell for it, the sucker. All those grunts and expressions of pain — he was totally taken in. Well, let me tell you, Detective The Blank, about how I don’t feel pain. About how the only one around here who’s gonna know pain is your pal Doyle.

Or is he your pal? That was a damn straight question you asked about whether Doyle tossed me through that door. A big gamble of yours. Supposing I’d said yes, Doyle did do that? What would you have done then? Taken me seriously or tried to shut me up? Whose side were you on, Detective?

More importantly, whose side are you on now?

Now that your head can’t shake out the picture of Doyle sitting in his car with that Marino woman, his hands and his lips all over her, what do you think of your partner? You still believe in him? You really think that anything he says can be trusted? You think he wouldn’t resort to beating me up, when it’s possible he’s done things a lot worse than that?

Stick around, oh blank one, while I finish creating my masterpiece. Because I haven’t finished with Doyle.

I’ve got a lot more work to do yet.

Steve Hamlyn tries to remember what sleep is like.

Proper sleep. The kind where you leave the physical world behind while you explore the surreal, your brain experimenting with new connections that give rise to all kinds of previously unimagined happenings — often absurd, sometimes even comical. The kind where you wake reinvigorated, ready to face all that life can throw at you.

Not this. Not the kind of sleep where you feel like you’re lying a mere fraction of an inch below wakefulness. Where the slightest sound — the rustle of a sheet, the heavy breath of your partner, the patter of rain, the rush of your own pulse — is enough to jolt you back into the room, drenched in sweat. Where the dreams, when you can reach them, are of the darkest kind imaginable, filled with violence and fear and gut-wrenching images. And where you know that, even when you escape the nightmares, your reality is little better. It is no longer something you welcome. You wake up crying silently, the tears streaming down your face. You feel the pressure in the center of your chest, as though your heart is ready to burst. And sometimes you wish it would burst, because sometimes you would gladly accept death as a way of ending this torment.

Steve turns to look at Nicole lying next to him. He can see only the back of her head, but her slow breathing suggests that she, at least, has found some peace. He doesn’t want to disturb her. He owes her that much. He owes her so much more, in fact. He has not been there for her. Not provided the shoulder she needs. At this very moment he can see that, but such moments of clarity have been rare lately, and this one will also quickly fade and die. His mind gets too crowded with other thoughts, other emotions. But he will make it up to her. Later. When things have been resolved. When Megan’s killer has been caught.

He wishes he could do something — anything — to help bring this to an end. He wishes he knew people. The kind of people who would undertake any job, no matter how illegal. If he knew people like that, who could guarantee that they would find Megan’s killer, then he would give them everything he owns. He would sell his house, his car, everything. He would even sell his soul. And he wouldn’t want them to administer any justice. He would do that himself.

Just find the sick fuck. I’ll take it from there.

But he doesn’t know people like that. All he has is the police, and he’s not convinced he can rely on them. They don’t seem to be getting anywhere with this. He calls them every day, several times on some days, and they tell him nothing. They’re following leads. Making inquiries. The usual bullshit. It all amounts to a heap of nothing. The killer is still out there, and they’re not going to catch him.

A tremor passes through Steve as he thinks this. What if they never catch him? What will I do then? How will I ever get my life back?

Anger wells up again. His chest tightens. His breathing accelerates. He wants to let out a roar of frustration. He feels so powerless. So fucking useless. His feelings toward Nicole change in a heartbeat. She transforms from someone he has wronged into someone who is too weak, too understanding and too accepting of this whole fucking mess their life has become. Where is her rage, her thirst for vengeance? How can she not be filled with fury at every waking moment? How can she even sleep?

He tosses back the covers and swings his feet onto the floor. He sits there for a minute, his face in his hands. Wondering how he can care so much while Nicole seems to care so little.

When he stands up and fetches his robe, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He sees an ugliness in his expression he has not seen before. It’s the face of a man who has had enough. A man who feels he has nothing left to lose. A man who could kill.

He goes downstairs. His fists are clenched, his muscles taut. He craves coffee, even though he knows it’s probably the worst thing he can take right now. A run. He needs to go for a run. Then a workout. Then. .

He sees it. There is no way he couldn’t. It practically jumps up and screams at him. It begs for him to approach and examine it.

A stark white rectangle. An envelope. There, on the floor. Just in front of the main door. As though it has been pushed underneath.

Steve glances at the wall clock. It’s only five in the morning. Somebody has visited them during the night and delivered this message. Somebody has sneaked here under cover of darkness to let the Hamlyns into a secret.

Steve feels his heart begin to pound. He doesn’t yet know what the note says, but he is certain it’s something of immense importance. Something about Megan that will turn everything upside down.

He steps closer to the front door. When his bare toes are just inches away from the letter, he stares down. It seems to stare back at him, daring him to touch it. Whispering to him that this is the answer to his prayers.