Three Breaths (The Game of Life Novella Series Book 3)

by Belle Brooks

  “Max.” I hear Gleaton say as he strolls towards the lounge room.

  “He’s asleep on the chair.”

  “Good. Max will need it. He’s stationed with you until the end.” Gleaton peeks at a thick gold watch secured to his wrist, and then to the mobile phone cupped in his hand. “Coffee, Reid?”

  “Nope.” The thought of food or drink turns my stomach. Why is Max with me until the end? And when will this end?

  “Can I see my children? I miss them.” Surely, I'm free to come and go as I please now I've been cleared.

  “Sure, but if I were you, I'd keep time away to short intervals given the threats our caller has made and the fact he seems unstable. Twenty minutes, maybe?"

  I'm shocked.

  "Take your mobile phone, okay?"

  I jump forward. I’m not sure why—maybe because I never expected Gleaton to say yes. “Really?” Did I just hear him right?

  Gleaton nods when he says, “Twenty minutes, okay?"

  “What if another call comes in?”

  The corner of his lips lifts upwards. “The trace is in place. All calls will record immediately, and when they come through the landline, we can divert them to your mobile. A short visit is fine; your kids need to see their dad.”

  My mouth drops wide as a glimpse of relief sears through my veins. “When did that happen? You said it could take longer?”

  “West just sent confirmation.”

  “Thank God.”

  The grass cushions my feet, making it seem as if I’m hopping between clusters of clouds. I’m weightless. I don’t knock. I don’t speak. I fling the door open and run until I see the lounge area.

  “Daddy, Daddy.”

  My sweet Aleeha’s voice is music to my ears. She leaps from a bean bag chair and bounds toward me. Her face is filled with happiness at first glance, but as she closes in her sadness is obvious.

  “Is Mummy home?” she questions as I kneel, and she collides with my chest. I hug her with every bit of strength my arms have.

  “No, sweetheart, not yet. Soon,” I whisper against her cheek.

  “I want Mummy. Can we go and get her from ...” She pauses. “Daddy, where is my mummy?” Her beautiful eyes search mine.

  “Grandma and Grandad are here. That’s exciting, right?” My question is delivered with the hope of a needed distraction.

  Her bottom lip sinks. “I want Mummy.”

  “I know you do. Soon, baby girl. Soon.” The skin on her arms is soft as I rub my hands up and down them. Her cheeks look stained from what I assume is dried tears, and her cheeks are reddened.

  “Can Brax and me, can we come home now, Daddy?” Her voice is sweet, as sweet as the familiar strawberry smell of her detangling hairspray filling the room. She must have taken it with her.

  I sigh. I wish they could.

  “Brax is outside with his grandad. They’re passing and kicking the football.” Shirley is standing behind Aleeha when I look up. Her hair rollers are still in, even though she’s dressed in one of her flowery day dresses.

  “Is he okay?”

  “No. Brax isn't up for talking, but he’s hanging in there.”

  I nod.

  “Come here, muffin.” Lifting Aleeha to my hip has contentment holding my heart. Her little chin tucks around my neck. Her long drawn-out breaths provide warmth to my skin. “Let’s go see Brax.”

  Aleeha nods against me.

  Standing on the back porch, I spot Brax in his bright yellow football jersey immediately. His right leg swings back and connects with the ball. The loud thump that accompanies his kick causes me to smile. “Brax,” I call. He doesn’t look in my direction or acknowledge I’m standing there. My smile disappears as I sigh.

  Kylee sits on a lawn chair with her eyes turned upwards. A flying football sails in the direction of Ronald. It’s a peaceful and serene morning. For me, though, hell hovers. It hangs like a storm about to smother the earth with strikes of electricity.

  “Brax, Dad’s here.” Kylee stands from the chair.

  “Brax,” I call. He doesn’t follow my voice to find me. Instead, he keeps his head turned away.

  Aleeha drops from my hip to her feet, nestling close against my side. I keep my arm wrapped around her as if she might get swallowed whole if I don’t.

  “Mate. I’m here.” I try again to gain Brax’s attention.

  I don’t. He catches the football Ronald kicked high, then drags his feet in the opposite direction to me until he stands to face the farthest fence.

  “Give him time.” John’s deep voice comes from behind me. “He’ll be okay.” I feel his hand on my shoulder.

  “Yeah.” I sigh.

  “Daddy, I missed you last night,” Aleeha whispers.

  “I missed you, too. Soon we’ll all be home together, just the four of us, how it should be.” I crouch so I can press my lips to her delicate cheek, leaving a tender kiss. I can only imagine what this must be like for them as children.

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes.” I watch as Aleeha’s narrow eyes widen.

  “Shirley let us have choc-chip pancakes for breakfast.” A cheeky grin washes over her lightly freckled face.

  “You’re fortunate,” I reply, searching for Brax. He’s back to where he was before I showed up and interrupted his game with my presence. Brax is angry and he wants to show me how much by his actions. I just wish he’d talk to me.

  “I added the chips into the pancake mixture. I ate a handful of them. Shirley said it’s okay to eat chocolate for breakfast because you’re allowed to do that when you’re staying at someone’s house and not at home. You’re allowed to, aren’t you, Dad?”

  I wish he’d talk to me.

  “Aren’t you, Dad?”

  “Sorry. What did you say?” I turn my attention back to Aleeha.

  “Shirley said it’s okay to eat a handful of chocolate chips for breakfast because you’re allowed to do that when you’re staying at someone’s house and not at home. You’re allowed to, aren’t you, Dad?” Her head drops toward the ground, so I take my finger and gently lift her chin so our eyes connect.

  “Of course you’re allowed to, and when Mummy gets home, we can make these wonderful choc-chip pancakes for her. She’ll love them.” I get closer to her face until our noses touch. “Guess what?”

  “What?” she says, quietly.

  “I think it’ll be okay for you to eat two handfuls of choc chips for breakfast.”

  Her smile beams and a glimmer of happiness fills her expression. “Okay, Daddy.”

  “Aleeha,” Kylee calls out to her.

  “Yes, Grandma?”

  “Can you come here, sweetheart? I want to show Grandad just how tall you are beside me now.”

  And just like that, Aleeha leaves my side.

  Sitting on the porch has me scanning the clean-cut backyard. The gardens are in full bloom. The freshly painted rustic green gazebo, the one I helped John do a few weeks ago, looks as good as it did the day we painted it. I wish I could go back to three weeks ago and see what I see now. Morgan and I were having troubles, and if we’d just taken some time away together, we could have found a way to work it out. Maybe she wouldn’t have stayed back at work. Perhaps she wouldn’t have been taken.

  “Reid, can we talk?”

  I crook my neck to be met by Shirley’s kind eyes.

  “Sure.”

  “Inside will be best.”

  “Okay.”

  John passes the both of us on the way in, a mug extended from his hand. “Coffee for Ronald,” he says in passing.

  “We’ll be outside soon,” Shirley says to John, even though he’s no longer in view.

  As Shirley sits at the small square table situated just off the kitchen, I take a moment to scan the room. Everything is still the same as it was the last time I was here. Figurines, photographs, and knick-knacks fill the shelving on the wall. The large gold-framed wedding picture of John and Shirley some thirty years ago hangs on the wall.
/>   “Reid, what are the police doing over there? This situation is getting too much now. Do they know anything?”

  I sigh as I take a seat across from Shirley and drop my head.

  Vibration. There are lots of vibrations against my leg.

  I forgot to turn my phone’s volume back on.

  “Hang on.” I reach into my pocket, retrieving my mobile.

  Private Number flashes across the screen.

  “Oh shit. Shirley, say nothing. It could be …” I can’t even say it out loud, mainly because I’m fearful, and because Shirley’s expression fills with worry.

  “Hello.” I hold my breath.

  “You’re not where you’re supposed to be.”

  “I am.”

  “No. You’re not.”

  “Please. Don’t hurt Morgan. I’m going home now.”

  “Smoke and mirrors. Illusion. What can be seen is never unseen, but what you don't see is the clue. Do you even know what’s under your nose, Reid? Am I visible? Or am I not?”

  “I don’t understand.” My blood whizz’s through my head before it constricts my heart.

  “The day my hand shakes yours, and it will, just know that it hurt Morgan. Tarnished her and marked her. That it was the last to ever touch her skin. Not yours. Mine. My hands will be responsible for extinguishing her soul and I will walk beside you one day. Until then, enjoy the nightmares.”

  The line goes dead.

  “Oh fuck. Shirley, I have to go.”

  Morgan

  It may only be a small blade, but it’s sharp. I hold the scissors as a weapon in my clenched fist, shifting left, then circling entirely to my right. Where are you?

  One step, two steps, three steps. I keep my eyes focused on the movement I hear coming from in front of me. Four steps, five steps, six steps.

  “Fuck!” I scream as I barrel over a sharp object protruding from the earth. The burn at my shins is enough to tell me the sutures binding my skin together are no more. Blood trickles over my feet. I groan, falling on to my bottom and eye a cut tree stump misplaced in a sea of towering trees. You came so far, Morgan.

  I did. I’ve been walking, running, sneaking, and jumping at every noise I’ve heard for what I believe to be hours. And now my legs sting, burn, and ache all at once, until they don’t. I’m numb. I try to stand. I fall. I try to pull myself up once more, only to find my arse meeting turf.

  “No. No. No.” Why is this happening? If I can’t walk, I’m sitting prey. Please God, let me walk.

  A beam of light, the colours of red, yellow, pink, indigo and blue, forms an arch before my eyes. It hangs in limbo in mid-air. I follow the rainbow downwards until I see the scissors still wrapped tightly in my grip. I still have a weapon. I have a chance.

  I’m shaking when I inspect my reopened wounds. They’re deep, and I’m not sure what I’m seeing … blood, so much blood.

  There’s no longer a bandage inside the backpack. There’s nothing except an empty canister and a compass. The tank top I’m wearing. I can use some of the material.

  Every cut I make is close to my stomach, and I flinch, worried I’m going to plough this sharp utensil through my guts. The constant dizziness I’m experiencing, whether from blood loss or starvation, is making this task hard. Concentrate, Morgan. You don’t need to inflict your own wounds.

  “I know,” I scold myself.

  Take the fucking shirt off.

  “Of course,” I murmur dropping the scissors to the ground and slowly pulling the top the Wolf had left for me over my head.

  The material is not hacked or jagged; it’s a neat cut that travels from back to front. When I make the last snip, a band of material falls away. A snip on either seam gives me two lengths.

  It’s a growl more than a groan that bursts from my lips as I tie each length around my shins. The white turns red almost immediately.

  You can do this, Morgan. Encouragement is all I have left. I’m feeling broken, so fucking broken.

  Elbow, wrist, pull, scan my environment. Elbow, wrist, push, scan. Elbow, wrist, push, scan. Any ground I crawl over is good because I need shelter from the scorching sun, and an aid to assist me with walking. Sitting on my arse, feeling sore and sorry for myself, will result in my death, and death is not an option for me.

  It must take more than a hundred turns of my scratched-up arms against the rough terrain to find the perfect-sized fallen branch to use as a walking stick, but I locate it. Sun dances behind the trees as different-shaped shadows form. My eyes burn as a blinding light saturates them with a bright beam. My head lifts from the dirt, and I’m squinting, everything in front of me blurred.

  Where is the light? It has to be the wolf.

  I contemplate an attempt at running when fright leeches onto my heart, but something in my brain overrides my current fear and encourages me to move towards the light and not away from it. I find my feet and hobble, putting as much weight on my arms and the stick now acting as my cane. Every baby step is a victory. Every stumble without falling is my encouragement. The beam of light I previously saw grows fierce and broader in size, causing me to place my free hand on my brow, trying to shield my scrunched eyes. Where is the light coming from?

  Music.

  Soft music plays. Smooth, piano music. Sweet, gentle, and caressing. I shift my head left, right, up, down—I can’t see anything. The music grows louder, and when it does, I realise it’s coming from one direction. It’s coming from the same direction the beam of light is, so I shuffle, following the sound. The more ground I cover, the more the beat vibrates through my chest. It’s a female voice singing, the words are indecipherable, but I hear her.

  I know this song. I can’t place how or who is singing it, but I know this song.

  The music stops playing. It just stops, and all I hear is every quick breath I inhale. I take a step. Both my knees crack violently. Pain shoots up my thighs and into my spine. Walk it out, Morgan. Push through your grief.

  I do. I take another step, and with that step, the music again starts to play—the same piano music. The ground below me is brown, burnt leaf upon brown, charred leaf, which is forgiving under my feet—soft and cushioning. The smell, however, is mouldy and rotten.

  The music stops. Then starts. I concentrate on the words as I continue to shuffle gingerly forward. Does this mean something? Is the wolf trying to give me another clue? Or is this a trap?

  With every hobble I make, memories flood my mind. Memories of Reid and I, meeting on the university grounds, me in my red dress. Reid would refer to me as the lady in red from that day and many years after. Red—it’s what the wolf also calls me. This can’t be coincidental. So, can the wolf still be Cullum Williams? Or is this tied to Reid in some way? How could the man I love be so evil though? Confusion.

  “Birdy,” I mouth. The Artist. “People Help the People,” by Birdy. It’s the song. Relief has my shoulders dropping. I knew I knew this song. I once played it over and over for weeks. I was drawn to it, her raw heart-filled words. Aleeha was around two and Brax four. The kids would be sound asleep, and I’d play it on repeat.

  “Melodramatic ... this song is so dark, Morgan,” Reid would say, yet he’d sit watching me, as I cleaned the kitchen and sang.

  I tip my chin back and close my eyes, picturing the kitchen in our newly built house, which now holds years of memories. I see me singing and swaying my hips like I was on centre-stage in a packed auditorium, Reid never taking his gaze from me. He’d explore me like it was the first time he’d ever seen me. Our love—it was intense in a way. We couldn’t breathe without being loved by each other. Like the world would cave in on itself if we couldn’t feel each other’s presence.

  We lost that. We let it slide through our fingers. I want it back. I want my life back. My husband. My children. Reid can’t be responsible for this. He can’t be.

  I still, crying out with every bit of pressure I can force through my vocal cords. “I want to go home. Let me go home.”

  Is a
nybody coming for me. I scream in the hope that someone, anyone, will hear me. Maybe just this one time, someone will. If I could hear the music, maybe someone else could hear it too.

  “I don’t want to play your game,” I scream, my pitch so high from my bottled anger that it could shatter every piece of glass residing on this Earth. My throat stings from the pain of its force. The taste of blood coats my tongue.

  It's a deflated feeling. Twelve others have been where I am, and none of them has won the wolf's wild, twisted game. Not one. Why do I think I have a chance? My survival skills are less than limited. Hell, I can’t even keep my husband happy or be there for my children when they need me.

  I sink to the ground, and for one moment I pray it will swallow me whole and put me out of my God damn misery.

  Do I sit here and wait for him to come finish me off? Or follow the music to what will only be another test, or trap, or some bullshit I’ve no control over?

  Will I walk to my death?

  Reid

  Detective West folds down the lapel on my suit jacket, brushing over the material before snatching his hand back. The lines around his eyes appear more profound than they did the day I met him, and the grey colouration even more haunting. West looks fatigued, and I wonder if I look just as bad as he does.

  “Reid, you need to forget about the call. Put it out of your mind for now. They’re ready for you in the loungeroom. Remember, just speak from your heart. Plead for the safe return of Morgan, and remember this is going out to every home in the country. A live broadcast. Any slip-ups could see us going backwards. Are you sure you can do this?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll be sitting right beside you. Hold your chin up and look right into the lens. Pour your heart out. Say something to Morgan, and if you think you can cry, do it. Compassion is everything in these situations.”

  Cry. I can’t cry. I’m angry, blood-boiling angry. How did that fucker know I’d left the house? Gleaton—he’s involved. He must be. Do I voice this concern to West? Or is West also playing a part? I trust no one.