Revenge (2 page)

My stomach growls like a ferocious beast.

He gives me a sad half smile. “Water and food coming up.”

“Are those prison provisions?” I ask.

“You’re no one’s prisoner,” he calls back.

I realize quite suddenly where I am. One look across the room is all it takes. Mark’s uniform, neatly pressed and hung, is in a closet on the other side of the small bedroom. The little closet door is open and a naked bulb illuminates the sparse set of clothes.

He always wore casual stuff, like t-shirts and jeans. And then there were his police officer uniforms. I never saw him wear anything but those two items.

I’m in his bedroom in the cabin behind Brian and Elaine’s house.

“
What happened?” I ask again as he returns with a glass of what looks like apple juice and a tray of cheese and crackers. Hunger takes over and I eat two pieces of cheese and drink half the juice. It tastes divine.
 

“Go slow there, sweetie,” he says, voice filled with concern. “You haven’t eaten all day and you’re injured.”

Sweetie. That was his pet name for me years ago. One of the rescue dogs at the shelter had b
een named Sweetie
. A big old bull mastiff. Mark had found that contradiction hilarious, and started calling me “sweetie.”

The term of endearment throws me off. I’m already unstable. Unsteady. Confused and unsure.

Adding “sweetie” to the mix isn’t helping.

“
Quit stalling and quit calling me sweetie,” I bark. “Why did you attack me like that?”
 

He sighs. “I didn’t
attack
you.”

I try to arch an eyebrow but it hurts too much.
Pain radiates out from my head.
 

“Are we going to argue, or are you going to explain before I go to the police chief and tell him you know who has Amy and were on the phone with some guy today about it, telling him to hide her?”

Mark pinches he bridge of his nose like he’s in pain.

“That’s not what’s going on here, Carrie.”

I pop a piece of cheese in my mouth and chew. I just stare at him.
I pretend my mouth doesn’t hurt.
 

His phone buzzes. Then a second phone buzzes. He pulls both out and reads their screens.

“Two phones? What?”
I ask, frowning. I stop mid-frown as I feel little cuts on my face open up.
 

He holds up one finger. “I’ll explain in a minute. Eat.” He says it like it’s an order.

I drop the food right then and there. He can’t tell me what to do.
I may be injured (
his fault
) and half out of it (
ditto
), and I might even be in danger and maybe—just maybe—he was protecting me, but...
 

H
e can’t tell me what to do.

Mark walks out of the room. I watch him get swallowed by the dark hall, his ass cradled by jeans that wrap around him like they’re clinging for dear life. He’s so tall and strong, his shoulders hunched with concentration,
the pale tan weave of his t-shirt stretched tight. His shoulder blades are surrounded by strong muscle leading across a cobra back, his biceps bulging against his shirt sleeves
.

He’s grunting into the phone, clearly trying to answer with as few words as possible.

Is that because I’m here? What’s he hiding?
I reach for the apple juice and drink the rest, trying to make sense of all this.
 

Here’s what I know: at Minnie’s house he was on the phone talking about someone named Allie who looks like the kidnapped girls. Said this was like “a brew home.” Said
so many confusing things.
 

I need to get out of here.

Sliding my legs down off the edge of the bed, I turn my ear toward the door.
My knee practically groans as I bend it.
 

Mark’s muted voice is far away. He’s in the tiny cabin, but I can probably slip out and be in my trailer before he can catch me. He’s distracted. I need to go somewhere and hide from the world. Elaine must be wondering where I am. I disappeared from work, no-showed at Minnie’s, and now Mark’s twisting everything I know into a pretzel.

I did not come back to town so I could become
more
confused about my life.

I make it through the kitchen to the back door, barefoot and limping. As I turn the cold metal doorknob with my scratched hand, the sound of breathing fills my ear. Then my entire back alights as if someone struck it with a match.

All the heat is pouring off Mark’s chest as he reaches from behind and stops my hand.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, his voice deep and alluring.

“Home.”

“Not safe.”

I start to snort, then stop myself. I don’t need more bleeding. “Like
you’re
safe? Give me a break.”
I reach up and gingerly touch my bruised face.
 

I can feel his shoulders slump. He’s that close. He swallows. The click in his throat is audible.

“I deserve that,” he mumbles, pulling away. He holds his hands up, palms forward. I see them in my peripheral vision as he takes a step back. My eyes are fixed on the little window in the kitchen door. I take one breath at a time. Exhale. Shift my weight from one h
i
p to the other.

“Go,” he says in a neutral voice.
I can hear him holding back so much more. The million questions in my mind begin to swirl, starting with the first one.
 

The three-year-old question.

I whirl around and look up. I need to if I want to see his eyes.

“Why did you turn my father in?”

His eyes shift suddenly, as if he’s recalling a memory. I’m breathing hard. The edges of every wound on my wrist, my knees, my mouth feel like jagged glass dusted with saltwater. I’m tired. I’m drained. It’s been a long three years to carry so much pain around with me.

I literally shrug, like I’m dropping a backpack filled with rocks.

I
t’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 step
s
, 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
ne
xt 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 we
a
sel 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.
I
t’s a bifold, and he tosses it on the kitchen table. The dim light gleams on something shiny in it.

“
I
t’s your badge. I get it,
M
ark.” 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.”

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.
 

T
he 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
i
s
sur
real, 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.

N
ow 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
.”