Marked

TWENTY-ONE

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.

He bends down and picks up the envelope. Straightens up again as he stares at the printed words on the front: