by Meli Raine
I literally shrug, like I’m dropping a backpack filled with rocks.
It’s time to let go of so much of my past. Especially the unfinished business between me and Mark.
“I told you, I had to. It was my—”
“JOB!” I scream, the sound welling up from my navel. It’s as if it’s been coiled, like a spring waiting to be sprung. “Your job. You’ve said you were just doing your job, Mark. What the hell is your job, then? To date young women so you can sneak into their lives and hearts and gather fake evidence against a man who was innocent?” My lip splits as I open my mouth wide.
Mark staggers backward two steps, his ass hitting the back of a kitchen chair. He looks like I slapped him.
Good.
“Is it your job to pace around a kidnapping victim’s house and talk about the man you’re pretty sure is doing this, and in the next breath give your fake sympathy to the victim’s mother? Is it your job to grab me in a parking garage and pretend you’re kidnapping me so you can—what? Scare me? Put the fear of God in me? Try to deter me?”
He says nothing.
“Is it your job to fuck Claudia Landau so you can weasel your way into her life, too?”
He flinches but says nothing. I wish he would say something. I’m so cold suddenly. It’s like all my anger has been propping me up. Fueling me. Now that I’m unleashing it that power source is leaving me.
“If that’s all true, Mark,” I spit out, “then you have one hell of an interesting job. Tell me—what exactly do you do for a living?”
With eyes that seem to flash through nineteen emotions at once, he reaches into his back pocket. A flare of panic plumes in my chest. Is it a weapon? Am I wrong, and Mark really is a danger?
He pulls out a wallet.
I make a dismissive noise. “What’s this?”
He opens it. It’s a bifold, and he tosses it on the kitchen table. The dim light gleams on something shiny in it.
“It’s your badge. I get it, Mark.” I feel deflated and livid all at once. I don’t know which feeling to feel, so my nerves seem to feel them all.
“Look at it, Carrie.” His voice doesn’t allow me to disobey.
I limp over to the table and pick it up. My eyes widen impossibly as I realize that’s not a cop badge.
“I’m with the Drug Enforcement Agency, Carrie. I’m a federal agent and I’m deep undercover.”
Chapter Three
Of all the times for me not to be able to call Amy and tell her this.
“You’re a what?” I gasp.
He looks like he’s vibrating. Mark leans forward and puts his hands on the edge of the kitchen table. His fingertips are white. The cords in the back of his hands stand out. His veins bulge. His chest rises and falls, heavy and hard, his pecs straining against the thin, beige fabric of his shirt as he stares at me.
The look he gives me makes me want to hug him and flee from him at the same time.
“I’m a DEA agent.”
I can’t believe this is happening.
“Since when?” I gasp.
“Since four years ago.”
“Four what?” My voice rises with shock. What is Mark saying? What does he mean? He’s been a...huh?
“Four years. I got back from Afghanistan and my special forces training made me a candidate, so—”
“No.” I laugh, a barking sound that feels unreal. All of this is surreal, so why shouldn’t my laughter join in? This is absurd. “You’re a police officer.”
I knew he’d served in Afghanistan. He’d mentioned it, briefly, with a lot of pain and a brooding look. I’d stopped asking more details. It seemed like an off-limits topic back then.
Now I wish I’d asked more questions.
“I’m afraid yes, Carrie. I’ve never been a true police officer. I mean, I am...I have all the legal clearances and the—never mind.”
I’ve never heard Mark ramble nervously. There’s a cuteness to it, like an awkward teen boy trying to talk to a girl.
Except this isn’t a teen boy. This is the man who got my father arrested, who also knows who stole my best friend, and who is standing before me telling me that everything I knew about him was a lie.
“Our entire relationship was fake,” I whisper.
“God, no,” he hisses, his eyes gleaming in the light as he gives me a savage look. “You were the only real part of my entire life here, Carrie.” The way the light bounces off his face makes me want to weep. His eyes, his skin, the way his jaw muscles fold and grind. The sheer power of his emotions feel like heat waves radiating toward me.
I go numb. My ears ring. My eyes blink over and over. My body feels like it’s hurtling through space and time without any control.
My heart is along for the ride.
I toss his badge on the table. It skitters and slides off the edge, bouncing on his foot. I reach for the doorknob to the kitchen door, shaking so hard my teeth start to chatter. I’m not cold. I open the door and look back at him.
His head is bent down, fingers gone a strange shade of white from gripping the table so hard. His hair is longer than usual and covers his forehead. I can’t see his eyes. His entire body is rigid with tension. Every muscle swells. His arms look like carved wood. If we were in any other situation I’d admire him. Take him in with my eyes.
Devour him.
Right now, though, isn’t that time. It’s like something between us just died. How many lies were in my life that I didn’t know about? How many truths that I believe aren’t really true? How could I give my heart to Mark so long ago only to be brutally betrayed?
“Don’t go,” he says. Begs. Pleads. He doesn’t look up, though. The words are so desperate that he doesn’t have to. I know what I will see in his eyes if he looks at me.
“Give me a reason to stay,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
His head pivots up, fast. His eyes gleam in the light.
“I can give you ten thousand reasons, Carrie, if you’re willing to listen.” He lets go of the table and takes two bold steps toward me.
I say nothing. I don’t have to. The power in the room has shifted to me. I have it all. Finally, I’m the one in charge. This is what I’ve craved for years.
The truth. The power to know the truth. And the power to act on that truth.
I just had no idea there was so much truth hiding beneath so many lies.
My breath feels like it’s made of thousands of feathers all floating in my lungs. Time seems to slow down. A light breeze floats past me, prickling my skin, making the hair on my arms rise. I am gooseflesh and instinct. I am nothing but my pulse in my throat, my eyes on Mark’s face, the feel of my blood standing still and rushing at the same time.
I am Carrie.
I am now.
I want to listen to him. I want him to take me in his arms and hold me all night. If Mark could whisper gentle words and strong assurances, I’d listen to him talk forever. He says he has ten thousand reasons why I should stay and listen.
How about he gives me ten thousand more and ten thousand more after that, all the reasons stretching out through the rest of our lifetimes to fill our days and nights with each other?
Am I stupid for wanting him, still? I thought I was the one who snuck away from him. Leaving without a goodbye three years ago felt like I wielded a weapon. I was angry and furious. I felt hurt and bewildered.
Now I know why.
Something deep inside me must have known, even then, that Mark’s actions didn’t add up. He’s standing before me now, offering to tell me everything.
Everything.
“You have to tell me everything,” I hiss. “Every single truth.”
He nods, his eyes flashing with hope. “Yes.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
“Don’t you ever lie to me again.”
Silence. His breath fills the room, like a love song. The air leaves his lungs and travels across the room to fill mine, like a kiss we perform
without touching. He keeps looking at me like that. Like a man who can’t live without me. Like this moment in time, frozen, is about to change our destiny.
I wish he’d pause for a second and stop looking at me like that, because when he does, all I can think is his name.
Mark.
“Yes?” he asks, one corner of his mouth quirking up. I must have said his name aloud. The difference between my thoughts and reality is a line so fine that the only thing separating the two is...well...
I don’t know.
I take one step toward the kitchen table. My ankle wobbles and I lose my footing, grabbing on to the back of a chair to prevent myself from falling. I pull the chair out and he watches me. His body is poised to jump in. I know he wants to help.
He knows he needs to give me distance.
Once I’m seated, he turns away and walks to the counter. Mark takes something out of the cupboard and sets it down. He turns on the water for a half a minute. I look away and stare at my injured wrist. The blood is caked and the scratches Eric left are an angry red.
Eric. Did that really happen today? My morning began at Minnie’s house, with the confrontation in the front yard as Mark pulled away in his cop car. I went to work. Effie gave me the files—
The files. Where is my backpack?
“My backpack?” I ask as I realize Mark’s making coffee. The machine begins to gurgle and hiss.
“It’s next to my bed,” Mark says, not turning around. He stretches up to grab two mugs from a top shelf in the cupboard and his shirt pulls out of his pants, exposing exquisitely cut muscles along the base of his back.
A thrill of attraction races through me like an electromagnetic pulse.
“Thank God,” I say. I slump, my elbows on the table as Mark pours the coffee. I see him out of the corner of my eye. The coffee’s hot, the steam rising up like it’s trying to give me answers. If only life were that simple.
“Why are you so worried about your backpack?” Mark asks, pulling out a chair from the table and sitting on it, straddling the back, his own cup of coffee cradled in his hands. He looks at me, the guarded dark expression gone. He’s more open.
My eyes skitter to the badge. He looks at me. The guarded look is back.
Do I tell him what’s in the backpack? I don’t know any more. I want to trust him with every fiber of my being. In some ways I don’t have a choice. I came back with mixed feelings about Mark. Amy and Elaine are my anchors. Right now, Elaine’s taking care of Amy’s mom, and Amy is gone.
Mark is my last best hope for helping my friend. For finding out what exactly happened to my dad. I don’t think the question is, Can I trust him?
I think the question is whether I even have a choice here.
“Right before Eric walked into the office,” I say slowly, pausing to blow on the hot coffee, “someone at work gave me some important documents.”
“Well, that’s specific,” he says with a half-grin.
I narrow my eyes and try to decide whether to smile. “I’m not giving you any names. Not yet.”
He gives me a look as if to say fair enough. “Go on,” he urges.
“The documents are supposedly emails that the dean may have had scrubbed. Emails between my dad and the dean.”
“What?” Mark says sharply.
“I know. It sounds crazy,” I say, swallowing hard. “But I’ve read a couple of them already. They’re real.”
“How did you get them?” Mark demands.
I hold up a hand. It’s the one with the scratches on it. “I’ll tell you my secrets, but you’ve got to tell me yours first,” I insist.
The challenge hangs in the air between us.
He nods. “That’s fair.”
I take a deep breath, and let my shoulders drop as much as they can. That’s not very far. I’m so tense it feels like two giant bricks of concrete live where my shoulder blades are supposed to. So many muscles ache. So much skin is torn. And yet I’m grateful.
I’m grateful, and I should feel gratitude. I’m not kidnapped like Amy. I’m not drugged like Minnie. I’m not like Elaine, trying to take care of an overwrought mother. And I’m not Dad, who’s dead.
My gratitude bubbles up, that Mark is willing to tell me everything that really happened. And something more than gratitude is there.
I look at him. His hair’s a mess, a strong wave floating over his creased brow, the lines drawn by muscles woven into worry. Those honey-colored eyes are a deep amber now, the skin around them tight with cunning and intensity. His mouth is set with determination. His shoulders stand tall and straight as he sits up and drinks two or three sips of courage from his steaming mug.
“You sure you’re ready, Carrie?” he asks. His words are steady, his voice is firm, his tone is commanding.
And I match him step for step when I reply, “I am.”
Chapter Four
“I’m not sure how far back I need to go,” he says with a sigh.
“Go back as far as you need to,” I stress.
He gives me a half laugh, the kind of smirk with a chortle that means a person is reluctant to say what they know they have to say.
“I suppose that means going back to tell you all about my mom and dad.”
“That far back?” I ask, a little surprised. When we were dating, Mark didn’t talk about his family at all. Come to think of it, I don’t even know if he has a brother or sister.
“My mom and dad were the cliché of the good girl and the bad boy.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. He laughs, but it’s not a funny laugh.
“My mom,” he says slowly, “was the daughter of a United States senator.” He names a man whose name I’ve read in history books.
My jaw feels like it hits the table.
“Your grandfather was James Thornberg? The James Thornberg?” Every high school history book has an entire chapter on the guy. Ushered through major legislation on education and agricultural issues. Ran for president and failed a few times, then settled in to be the powerhouse of the Senate back before I was even born.
“He’s long dead, my grandpa,” Mark says, nodding, “and so is my mom, for that matter. She died about five years ago. Just before I got home from Afghanistan.” His face goes sad. “That was one hell of a meeting with my commanding officer.”
“Oh Mark, I’m so sorry!” I say. We have two things in common, I think to myself. We both have dead mothers.
His eyes cloud with memory. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” he says quickly.
I know that feeling. I know that move. That’s what you do when you want to cut off the other person’s emotions, and you cut them off because their emotions trigger your emotions. And you do not want to feel those feelings right now.
“My mom and dad split up a long time ago, when I was little. My dad was a cop.” He gives me a sardonic look. His grin is a mixture of amusement and something really close to disgust.
So it runs in the blood, I think to myself. I almost say the words and then stop. There’s something about the look in Mark’s eyes that makes me think saying those words would be a very bad idea.
“When I was three,” Mark says slowly, the words coming out one by one with careful precision, “my dad went from being a good cop to a bad cop. I didn’t learn all the details until I was an adult and realized I could go to the library and research the newspaper articles. And once I did, I understood why my mom and my grandfather had hidden all the details from me.”
A cold, numb feeling runs up my body, from the base of my heels, up my calves, behind my knees, along the backs of my thighs. It stops for a moment at the small of my back. It runs up in twin lines below each shoulder blade, reaching to connect back at my neck.
It feels like a burst of electricity goes through my eyes.
Whatever Mark’s about to tell me changes everything.
“My dad took money from the mob. That’s the short version,” Mark says, and then pauses, drinking half of his cup of coffee.
“That doesn’t seem so bad,” I say. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not great,” I add, as Mark gives me a deeply skeptical look. “But people do things like that. Cops turn bad.”
“Not cops married to a senator’s daughter,” he says, his jaw set to the side, tight, nostrils flaring. “Especially Senator Thornberg’s daughter.”
“Oh,” I say. It sinks in, layer by layer. “And is that why your parents split up?” I ask, my voice going high at the end.
He nods. “Yeah. My mom remarried when I was six. My stepdad adopted me. I didn’t see my biological father again until about a year ago.”
“Oh, Mark,” I say. “That’s...more than two decades!”
“Twenty-five years,” he corrects. “A quarter of a century, and most of my lifetime.”
“What, what—led you to see him?”
He closes his eyes and sets his lips in an expression of pain. When he opens them, his eyes flash with the same sort of burn that comes from the kind of eternal flame of knowledge that you can’t snuff out. He sighs.
“How about first things first, Carrie? Let me try to tell the story, and then you can ask as many questions as you want. I’m just—” He falters. “I’m just not sure I can tell all of it to you, if you keep asking questions while I’m telling it.”
I don’t know why, but I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. He doesn’t look up. His eyes are fixed on the cup of coffee. And then suddenly he does. The look we share is so raw and honest and real. I don’t want to look away.
This look makes me realize we all wear masks most of the time. Having Mark take his off is an honor for me.
“A few minutes ago, you were worried about whether you could trust me,” he says. “But I want you to know that I trust you fully. You are the only person in the world who knows any of this about me, and who knows what I’m about to tell you. ”