Revenge (3 page)

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,
C
an 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.
N
ot yet.”

He gives me a look as if to say
fair enough
. “Go on,” he urges.

“The documents are supposedly emails that the
d
ean may have had scrubbed. Emails between my dad and the
d
ean.”

“What?” Mark says sharply.

“I know.
I
t 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.”

“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
s
enator.” 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.
I
t’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.

“
M
y mom and dad split up a long time ago, when I was little. My dad was a cop.” He gives me a sardonic loo
k. H
is 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.

I
t 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.

I startle, realizing before the mug touches my lips, that I’m imitating him.

“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 s
enator’
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
clo
ses 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—”
H
e 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
make
s
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. ”
 

“
I won’t say a word,” I gasp.
 

“
I didn’t even have to ask you to keep this private,” he says. “I know you will.”
 

A kind of glow surrounds me at his words. It’s more than a feeling of being special. It’s a feeling of having another soul tell you that your soul is good enough for them.

“My dad disappeared,” he says. “My bio dad, I mean,” Mark corrects himself. “My adopted dad, Jack Paulson, was a business man. Owned a series of car dealerships.” His face softens. “He loved my mom so much.”

“Did he...is he...?”

“They both died in a car accident, Carrie,” he says slowly. “No one knows what happened. The car was found in a forty foot ravine off the coast, up in Oregon, when they were on vacation.
Someone contacted my commanding officer in Afghanistan before the news story broke. They didn’t want me to see it online before...
”

“Oh, God!” I whisper, squeezing his hand again. “I’m so sorry.”

I keep saying that.
I’m sorry
. Those two words are so inadequate right now.
 

He gives that weird smile again, the kind that means he’s biting down on so much pain inside. “Thank you,” is all he says.

“
Y
ou’re completely alone in the world.” The words come out of my mouth before I realize it. “Just like me.”

He frowns. “Not quite. I have a half brother.”

“A half brother?”

Mark nods. “We have different mothers, but the same dad.”

“He’s...you...you know him?
Your brother
?”

Mark finishes his coffee and stands up abruptly, going over to the kitchen counter. I hear him pouring more. He comes over with the pot and gives me a look as if to say,
D
o you want more?

I cover the cup with my hand
and shake my head
. Mark puts the coffee pot back and sits down.

“His name is Chase,” Mark says. “We’re
eight
years apart. When our moms were alive, they tried to make sure that we saw each other
a few times
.”

“
Your dads—your dad—I mean, your bio dad,” I stumble through, trying to figure out how to say this just right. “He never knew?”
 

Mark shakes his head slowly. “No. He never knew
that
we knew about each other.”

“
Holy shit,” I whisper under my breath.
 

He smiles, a genuine look of surprised amusement. “And I’m making you curse.”

“It’s a lot to take in, Mark.”

“It’s a lot to
live
, Carrie.”

My heart goes out to him.

“How many times did you see your little brother?”

“A few.
I
t all stopped when Chase was fifteen. When his mom died.”

All these dead mothers.
I
t’s starting to feel like a Disney movie.

“How did his mom die?” I clap my hands over my mouth and nearly scream. “Did your dad...did your bio dad, I mean...”

“God, no,” Mark says in a voice filled with reproach. “Galt is lots of things, but he
wouldn’t
murder a woman he loves.”