now he thinks I’m dead.
How long would it be before Rinaldo figured it out? How long would it be before my own desire to return to that life interfered with my time with Lia? Would I even last a year before I went searching for information on Rinaldo’s activities with thoughts of doing what I could to help him?
I can’t blame Lia for leaving. I want to, but I can’t.
My shoulders shake, and I don’t know if I’m sweating or crying. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I know if I open them, my persistent phantom will still be there. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to look into his eyes and know he’s right.
I can’t change.
I fall to my stomach, no longer able to control my sobs as images of Lia scroll through my head. My leg is pressed against something sharp. It might even be cut, but I don’t care. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t close my mind. She’s everywhere inside of me.
I see her for the first time as she walks to my cabin in Arizona. I see her through the sights of my Barrett as I take shots randomly around the local park. I see her as she wraps her arms around me, tells me it will be all right, and runs her fingers through my hair.
It’s not all right. It’s never going to be all right.
Curling into a ball, I finally lose consciousness.
I wake up, screaming.
My eyes are dry and achy as I stare into nothingness, lost in my own thoughts. I’m not sure how long I’ve lain in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by the shambles of my outburst. I know my stomach stopped growling at me long ago. I’m not even thirsty anymore.
A thump at the door startles me, and I look up. I can see through the window a thin outline of a man on the front porch. He crouches briefly and then stands again.
Instinct kicks in, and I roll myself away from the center of the room and take cover at the end of the couch. I don’t have a weapon on me. The closest gun is in the kitchen, still inside the backpack Eddie-boy handed me on the beach.
The shadow in the window moves, and I tense. Whoever it is turns and thumps down the steps to the driveway. I push myself to my feet and race to the kitchen to retrieve the Glock from the backpack and then head to the window in the front room.
Barely pushing the curtain aside, I watch a UPS truck pull away from the cabin.
On the porch is a long, brown package. The return address is a post office box in Thompson. When I squat down to pick up the parcel and carry it inside, it’s heavy. I’m wary, to say the least, as I place the box on the kitchen table and slice open the packing tape.
As I push the top half of the box away, I see my disassembled Barrett M82 sniper rifle.
I run my finger over the sleek metal. Near the trigger, the metal is darker with no scratches from wear and tear. It’s been repaired, and I have no doubt that it will work perfectly. When I lift the barrel from the box, I discover a small piece of paper.
Finish your business and return home.
Rinaldo had not been fooled. He had known exactly what I was doing the whole time. Home meant Chicago—there is no doubt in my head about that. I don’t know if I want to scream or cry.
I do neither. I laugh instead. The sound is empty and hollow in the deserted room.
In the back of the bedroom closet, there is a small safe. From it, I remove an old flip phone and select the only number entered into it. It only rings twice.
“ Evan?” I close my eyes as I hear Rinaldo’s voice. I have to swallow before I answer.
“ Yeah.”
“ You got my package.” It’s not a question.
“ Yes, sir.” I want to ask him how he had known I had survived, but I don’t. He probably wouldn’t tell me anyway.
“ There are a lot of changes coming,” Rinaldo says. “I’m going to need your undivided attention.”
“ You have it,” I say.
“ Really?”
I take a deep breath, but I can’t quite bring myself to say the words.
“ Evan?”
“ She’s gone,” I finally say in a harsh whisper.
How long would it be before Rinaldo figured it out? How long would it be before my own desire to return to that life interfered with my time with Lia? Would I even last a year before I went searching for information on Rinaldo’s activities with thoughts of doing what I could to help him?
I can’t blame Lia for leaving. I want to, but I can’t.
My shoulders shake, and I don’t know if I’m sweating or crying. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I know if I open them, my persistent phantom will still be there. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to look into his eyes and know he’s right.
I can’t change.
I fall to my stomach, no longer able to control my sobs as images of Lia scroll through my head. My leg is pressed against something sharp. It might even be cut, but I don’t care. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t close my mind. She’s everywhere inside of me.
I see her for the first time as she walks to my cabin in Arizona. I see her through the sights of my Barrett as I take shots randomly around the local park. I see her as she wraps her arms around me, tells me it will be all right, and runs her fingers through my hair.
It’s not all right. It’s never going to be all right.
Curling into a ball, I finally lose consciousness.
I wake up, screaming.
My eyes are dry and achy as I stare into nothingness, lost in my own thoughts. I’m not sure how long I’ve lain in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by the shambles of my outburst. I know my stomach stopped growling at me long ago. I’m not even thirsty anymore.
A thump at the door startles me, and I look up. I can see through the window a thin outline of a man on the front porch. He crouches briefly and then stands again.
Instinct kicks in, and I roll myself away from the center of the room and take cover at the end of the couch. I don’t have a weapon on me. The closest gun is in the kitchen, still inside the backpack Eddie-boy handed me on the beach.
The shadow in the window moves, and I tense. Whoever it is turns and thumps down the steps to the driveway. I push myself to my feet and race to the kitchen to retrieve the Glock from the backpack and then head to the window in the front room.
Barely pushing the curtain aside, I watch a UPS truck pull away from the cabin.
On the porch is a long, brown package. The return address is a post office box in Thompson. When I squat down to pick up the parcel and carry it inside, it’s heavy. I’m wary, to say the least, as I place the box on the kitchen table and slice open the packing tape.
As I push the top half of the box away, I see my disassembled Barrett M82 sniper rifle.
I run my finger over the sleek metal. Near the trigger, the metal is darker with no scratches from wear and tear. It’s been repaired, and I have no doubt that it will work perfectly. When I lift the barrel from the box, I discover a small piece of paper.
Finish your business and return home.
Rinaldo had not been fooled. He had known exactly what I was doing the whole time. Home meant Chicago—there is no doubt in my head about that. I don’t know if I want to scream or cry.
I do neither. I laugh instead. The sound is empty and hollow in the deserted room.
In the back of the bedroom closet, there is a small safe. From it, I remove an old flip phone and select the only number entered into it. It only rings twice.
“ Evan?” I close my eyes as I hear Rinaldo’s voice. I have to swallow before I answer.
“ Yeah.”
“ You got my package.” It’s not a question.
“ Yes, sir.” I want to ask him how he had known I had survived, but I don’t. He probably wouldn’t tell me anyway.
“ There are a lot of changes coming,” Rinaldo says. “I’m going to need your undivided attention.”
“ You have it,” I say.
“ Really?”
I take a deep breath, but I can’t quite bring myself to say the words.
“ Evan?”
“ She’s gone,” I finally say in a harsh whisper.
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