by W Winters
“You think he’ll keep her alive?” I ask Seth once the rustling and muted screams have settled to silence.
“To start an army?”
I shake my head and agree with the expression on his face. That it’s unrealistic for Marcus to have an army. It may have been what he led her to believe, but there is no army.
“Any reason at all that he’d keep her alive,” I answer him.
“Marcus doesn’t do loose ends.” Seth’s answer causes a chill to travel down the back of my neck. The feeling of loss and failure intertwine and wrap around my throat as I ask him, “What am I going to tell Bethany?”
His answer is simple and I already know it’s what I should do, even if it’s not what she’d want. “Nothing. Don’t bring her into this any more than she already is.”
Bethany
The Coverless Book plays tricks on me. I was certain Emmy’s mother would fire the caretaker for poisoning her daughter. But she says it’s only medicine that was poured into the soup. With the bottle in her hand, the mother does nothing but reprimand Emmy. She doesn’t look any deeper into it. She only tells Jake that he’s out of line and that Miss Caroline did nothing wrong. Emmy begs her mother to hire someone else and fire Miss Caroline, all to no avail.
Hate consumes me. For the women who are supposed to protect and love Emmy. And for the situation the young girl is in.
I read about how Jake is no longer welcome on the property, but Emmy sneaks out to see him, refusing to go on with life as she has been.
She doesn’t eat what Caroline cooks so Caroline stops cooking for her altogether, crying outside of the kitchen all while Emmy cries in her bedroom and her mother does God knows what.
It’s only at night that anything seems right. Only when Emmy climbs out of her bedroom window to meet Jake. It’s the two of them against the world.
There’s a passage that makes me feel alive, a passage that warms everything in my body.
“Take my hand and trust me,” he tells her. “I promise to save you, because I love you.”
That’s what you do when you love someone, he said. You save them.
And that’s where I had to stop.
Three more sentences are underlined. I don’t have my journal with me though to add them to the list. It’s useless to add them anyway. I’ve accepted that there’s no message buried in the lines. Maybe Jenny just wanted me to read the story. Maybe she fell in love with Emmy and Jake like I have. So many maybes and questions that will never be answered.
I lay the book on its pages, so I don’t lose where I’m at. I have to rub my eyes, and take a break after reading the last line I underlined, the line Emmy’s mother told Jake. Hope is a long way of saying goodbye. It’s in the book.
The words I gave to her, she saw it here. I wonder when she read it. Which came first. Not that it matters. None of it matters anymore.
I don’t know why I bother to keep reading when it only makes me sad inside. When I know there’s no message buried beneath the black and white letters.
It makes no sense at all, either, that I reach out to the phone to text Miranda, Jenny’s friend who gave me the book.
I want to text Jenny and I’m conscious of that. I nearly do. I nearly text her, Why this book? What did you want me to get from it?
I’m not that crazy yet, so I text Miranda instead. Or maybe that makes me crazier. I’m not sure anymore.
Thank you for giving me the book.
It takes a minute before my phone vibrates in my hand with a response. Bethany?
Of course she wouldn’t know it’s me. Feeling foolish, I answer her, Yes, I’m sorry to message, I just wanted to make sure I’d thanked you.
You should know, when I saw her with that book and she was underlining it…. She said you would understand better then. She said you’d be happy.
I’d be happy?
Miranda is no one to me. I’d have been just fine never seeing her again… until my sister died. That changed so many things. She’s a person I would never confide in, yet here I am, not hesitating to bleed out my every thought and emotion without recourse into a stream of texts. I’m anything but happy. Maybe if she was truly invincible, I’d be better.
Feeling the need to explain, I follow up my messages. Sorry, it’s a line in the book. She keeps saying she’s invincible.
I stare at her next message, reading it over and over. So that’s where she got it… she was saying that for a while before she packed.
Packed? I think to myself. Why would she have packed? Jenny didn’t tell me that before.
I text her back, Where did she go?
Her answer is immediate. I thought she went home to you. She didn’t tell me where. I just assumed she was going back to you because she said she needed help.
Jenny always said she wanted help, but she didn’t really mean it. She only said it to get me off her back. It was always lies she told me.
But maybe that day, she was coming home. Maybe she finally wanted to get better. It’s the sliding doors of life. If only one thing had changed, everything would be different. Maybe she was coming back home. Maybe that’s when they got her. Maybe I was only minutes away from being back with her and they tore her from me.
I drop the phone onto the nightstand, not bothering to reply anymore.
Hating all the maybes, all the possibilities that could have, should have happened.
Everything stills for a moment, going out of focus. As if forcing me to embrace only one thing: She’s gone. My sister is gone. My sister is gone, and I have nothing left. No one left but a man who I know is bad for me and one who will never love me.
The first tear that comes, I thought I could control. I can feel the telltale prickle, and how the back of my throat suddenly goes dry in that way that I know it’s coming. I think I can keep it from slipping with a single long, deep breath. I think I can stop it and be just fine. I don’t need a moment.
I thought so wrong. The first sob comes and in its wake and my failure to control it, heaving ugly sobs come bearing down on me. They’re reckless, and unwarranted. Turning to my side, I bury my head in the pillow, wishing I could suffocate the sniveling wails that come from me without any consent at all.
I hate crying. I’ve always hated it.
The tears are hotter and larger as they slip down my heated face. Falling to my chin just below where my bottom lip quivers.
Jenny is gone. Such a simple thing, something I deal with constantly in work and have dealt with all my life. She’s gone and there’s nothing I can do about it.
The nightmares aren’t real. She isn’t hiding somewhere waiting for me to save her.
The book is only words; there’s no deeper message within. It’s only words, meaningless like Jase said they were.
It all means nothing.
I have nothing and I feel like nothing just the same. But why does nothing hurt so much? Why does it hurt this bad when you give up hope?
Something must find its way into hope’s place in your heart. And that something feels like burning knives that keep stabbing me. I just want it all to stop. I want this chapter to end. Fuck, I need it to end. I can’t live like this. I can’t live in constant, all-consuming pain with nowhere to run.
Jenny, I hate you for leaving me. I hate you, but even hating you doesn’t make the pain stop. I still love you and I don’t think love can exist without hope.
It’s funny how I cling to something that’s not there. That I have faith that I’ll see her again in another life. Or that if I somehow bring her justice, she’ll know. That it will mean something to her, even if she’s not here.
Settling back into the pillow, I lie there tired and feeling like I’m drowning. I start to think that it’s okay to drown, that I shouldn’t fight it anymore. I’m scared of what will happen when I stop fighting though. What happens when I sink lower and lower into the cold darkness?
That’s the imagery that meets me in my sleep.
Jenny
; It’s almost been a month. Every day drags, achingly slowly. Every second wanting me to suffer more and more. It’s worse than what I thought it would be. The nausea and shaking. I can’t get over how cold I am all the time here.
There’s nothing but cinder block walls and a mattress on the floor. If I could think for a moment, I’d remember where I am, but I don’t remember. I can barely stand up without vomiting.
My bare knees scrape on the floor as I brace myself. The floor feels damp at first, like it’s wet, but the palms of my hands are dry. Rocking my body back and forth, I try to just breathe through the aching pain, the sweating, the constant moving thoughts that only stay still when I see her. That’s the only time everything settles, but it falls into the darkness where I hate myself for what I’ve done and what I’ve become.
The rumbling happens again, the gentle shaking of the light above my head. I’m not crazy. It’s real. The room shakes every so often.
He told me I could sleep through it. Weeks of sleeping while my body goes through withdrawal. He said he’d take care of me, that I had a purpose in this world.
He said he’d help me. Marcus can’t help me through this though. No one can help me. No one can save me from where my mind goes when I lie down.
I can’t sleep anymore. Bethany’s there every time I close my eyes and I feel sicker and full of guilt. I can’t sleep through this, knowing what I did to her. What I sacrificed to be here.
“It’ll all be worth it.”
My eyes whip up to his when I hear his voice. “It hurts,” is all I can say and I feel pathetic. Hurts isn’t adequate. “I feel like I’m dying.” The sentence is pulled from me, slowly, as it drags too. Everything drags so slowly.
“A part of you is dying.” His voice holds no emotion, no remorse, no sympathy. It’s only matter of fact. “And that’s a good thing.”
My head nods although I don’t know that I agree. Some moments I do. Some moments I just want it to end. I know what would make it all stop; I know a needle would make it go away. I nearly beg for it, but the last time I did, he left me alone in here. “I thought it would only be weeks,” I tell him, gripping on to that thread of a thought.
“It has only been weeks.”
Shaking my head violently and then hating the spinning that comes after, I grip the sides of my head and rock again, trying to settle.
His voice carries softly to me, as if it’s rocking me as well, “It’s been close to a month. It’s almost over. Just sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep!” I scream at him, the words clawing up my throat and scarring the tender flesh on their way out.
“Then don’t.” His answer is simple. In the dark corner of the room, he sits and watches. That’s what he does. He observes. That’s not what Beth would do. Licking the cracked skin on my bottom lip, I remember how she always had to be there, always involved, always telling me what I was doing wrong.
I wish I’d listened to her.
My rocking turns gentle just thinking about her.
“You said you’d tell her I was okay.”
“I said I’ll make sure she finds out.” He corrects me sharply.
“Did she see it? The note Jeremy left for her?” His gaze meets mine when I say the name, we’re not supposed to say each other’s names. I know it’s Jeremy though. He came in here to check on me the first few days. It had to be him because of the bandage on his chin.
Jeremy told me what Marcus did to his chin though. He said it was necessary and that’s how I know it was him in the video Marcus showed me.
Jeremy’s scar is not nearly as bad of a fate as what Luke would endure. Marcus said he deserved it. That it was meant to happen and to only tell him certain things. I listened; I was a good girl, but I regret it all right now. I want it all to stop. “Please,” I whimper, “make it stop.”
“It will stop in time and your sister will know in time.” My sister. Bethany. I need her to know. “Things are going according to plan.”
I comment, feeling hollow inside, “I just need her to know.”
“Go to sleep, Jennifer.” He knows the only person to call me Jennifer was my mother. I told him to stop, but all he says is that it’s my name.
“I feel guilty,” I confess to him as shivers run down my arms. I don’t know why. Maybe because there is no judgment from him, only truth and facts no matter how cold and callous they are.
“You should,” is his only answer.
“When will she know that I’m okay?” My eyes burn searching for him in the dark corner.
“That depends on something I can no longer predict.”
“On what?” I ask him, feeling a new pain run down the seam of my chest.
“Jase Cross.”
Jase
Some days, bad shit happens.
Some days you take a loss.
Other days, like today, the puzzle pieces to the overall bigger picture form and you can feel the bad shit and losses preparing to come. It’s like watching it all tumble around you.
It’s all I can think on the drive back home. That’s it falling, everything is going to fall and I’m not sure how to stop it.
As I turn right onto the long gravel road, I feel the vibrations in the car and remember the footage played for Seth and me in the back room after we took care of Luke Stevens.
Declan finally got hold of video from a coffee shop’s security feed of their parking lot that showed a section of the graveyard.
A young prick with a bandage covering half of his face snuck up on us and we had no fucking clue. He was right there, hiding behind the car and then at the windshield when the cop car came into view and I was focusing on that, rather than on him tucking a note in the wipers. He hid, crouched down by the wheel, but I should’ve seen his hand, I should have seen him walking up in the rearview by the tree line. I should have seen, but I didn’t.
Marcus may truly be building an army; an army of faceless men like this prick. An army I don’t have names for.
Seth’s taking care of the surveillance at the bridge Luke mentioned. We have eyes everywhere, watching and waiting. But in order to see what’s going on, something has to happen. Something has to fall. And I need names and faces to recognize.
The only one I have right now is Jenny Parks.
“Shit.” The curse falls from my mouth as I pull up to my driveway to the estate, seeing the cop car in plain view. Officer Walsh is standing off to the right of the yard, looking out into the woods.
Just what I fucking need.
It’s one thing after another. With the rise of adrenaline, my gaze instinctively goes to the second story window on the right, the curtains wide open, but Bethany nowhere to be found.
As I park the car and the faint music I wasn’t listening to shuts off, a thought passes through me: She wouldn’t have called him. There’s no way he’s here because of her.
With the car door opening, the bitter air hits me and it only makes the sweat on my skin feel hotter.
“Officer Walsh,” I call out, and my voice carries through the cold air. That’s all I say to greet him, walking steadily past the cars to the yard where he stays put. He rocks on his heels as I slip my keys into my pocket. “Anything I can help you with?” I ask when I’m close enough to him.
“Beautiful view,” he comments, taking his gaze back to the forest.
With the thin layer of snow and the white fog along the tree line, it’s eerily beautiful.
I don’t bother to comment, or to play with his niceties. If she called him, if she wanted to break me like that, get it over with. So I can deal with her and fix this shit.
She wouldn’t do that, I think as I swallow, shoving both my hands in my pockets. The moment I glance at the trees, Officer Walsh finally looks back at me.
“I thought maybe if I told you something, you could tell me something,” he says, and then clears his throat. A look crosses his face like he doesn’t know if he’s making the right move. Curiosity sneaks up on me and I
give him a small nod as I say, “You first.”
“My last case in New York… I failed to save a girl. She’s all right now… but I didn’t protect her like I should’ve. It’s why I asked for reassignment. I failed her.”
He doesn’t look at me when he talks, so I take in every bit of his expression. Noting the sincerity in his voice. But wondering how good of a liar this prick is.
“She moved back here. Close to here, anyway.”
“That why you’re here?” I ask him. “Are you looking for her?”
“No, not looking,” he answers me but still doesn’t look at me. “I know where she is.”
A breeze rushes by, causing his coat to slip open for a moment. His badge shows, just as the gun in his holster is on display for the moment. He shifts and buttons up his coat as he talks.
“I’m looking for someone else. A man named Marcus. He’s the one who saved her.” He rolls his shoulder back as he says “saved” and a grimace mars his face. “He’s the one who got her out of that mess.” His gaze finally meets mine when he adds, “He got her into it though. He used her, and then claims to have saved her.”
His jaw clenches and an anger I haven’t seen from him is left unchecked. It’s evident in the way his shoulders tense, plus the way he breathes out heavily. And in his voice when he says, “Marcus put her through a hell that I can’t even imagine surviving.”
Emotion drenches his confession and I can feel the vendetta that wages war in his eyes.
“What is it you want from me?”
“I want Marcus.” His answer is immediate. “Anything you have on him.”
I swallow, hesitating and Officer Walsh shakes his head with disgust. “You know him. I know you do. I’ve read the files and all the paperwork. For a decade or more, you and your brothers’ names have been right there along with his.”
“Sure,” I tell him, “Names on paperwork. But Marcus doesn’t have a face, he doesn’t have a number to call, he doesn’t have a location. There’s not a damn thing I can give you on Marcus.” I’m surprised by the resentment that laces itself around every sentence that’s spoken.