Chapter V: It All Started with That Damn Lie

  Nathaniel woke around 3:00 a.m., or so the dim glow of his computer screen suggested. The room was quiet, save for the hum of his Computer tower’s fan and the occasional soft snore from Kevin, curled up at the edge of the bed. Every joint ached. His mouth was bone dry, and when he sat upright, the simple motion felt like being peeled from the grip of some invisible weight. He didn’t bother turning on the light.

  He stood and shuffled to his closet, careful not to disturb the dog’s sleep. Pulling aside the usual half-dozen black shirts and flannel jackets, he reached behind them to a hidden section of his wardrobe—uniform shirts, tactical pants, plate carriers, gear pouches lined up like grim trophies on the shelf above. A battered AR-15 leaned against the back wall beside a shotgun. And there, gleaming faintly in the moonlight slicing through the blinds, sat his golden star badge.

  He picked it up.

  It was heavier than it used to be.

  He stared at the badge—the supposed symbol of law, order, honor—and felt his blood pressure spike. His fingers had gone numb just from holding it. He clenched his jaw and returned it to the shelf like it was a venomous thing. All he could think about was Gallark. The blood. The gurgling final breath. The silence afterward. No headlines. No funeral rites. No honors.

  Just a name spoken in a whisper among the few who knew what kind of monsters they fought—and what kind of men died fighting them.

  Nathaniel left the room and wandered to the kitchen. In the distance, Greg was singing again—some dumb jingle, probably from an ad they both used to laugh at. The refrigerator light bathed the kitchen in sterile glow as he pulled out a glass of milk, then turned and padded quietly toward the bathroom.

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  The bathroom lights flickered before settling into a dim yellow. He turned the water on and let it warm. The mirror showed him a face that felt unfamiliar—sleepless, pale, worn. He dunked his hands into the flow and splashed it over his face, scrubbing hard. When he leaned back and blinked away the sting, he saw it—the faint tinge of red in the water.

  He hadn’t cut himself. Not that he remembered.

  He reached for the towel and wiped his face dry, but the moment his eyes closed, the blackness brought with it a memory—Sarah. Sitting in a hospital bed. Her eyes locked with his. Her face calm, unmoving, while doctors chattered in the background, their words distant and irrelevant. The space between them had felt like a canyon, impossible to cross.

  He opened his eyes, disoriented.

  Greg was in the hallway, pushing into the bathroom past him. “Hey, friend,” Greg muttered, moving to the sink, starting to wash his hair like it was the most normal thing in the world.

  Nathaniel said nothing. He caught sight of her—Sarah—peeking her head from his room. Her hair fell across her face just like it used to. But… she couldn’t be here. His heart pounded. Greg didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t even notice. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he couldn’t see her.

  Nathaniel turned away, muttering nothing, and slipped back into his room. As soon as he entered for a second he was filled with the vain hope, That it was Sarah in his room. He should have learned by now to live in disappointment, Nothing.

  He sat at his desk, stared at the screen. Three tabs open: Facebook. Yahoo. Match. All ghost towns. Places he checked without really checking. He reached for the drawer. Opened it.

  The Glock 19 sat there like a final period at the end of a sentence.

  His chest tightened. Tears came quickly and quietly. He didn’t wipe them. Not at first. It wasn’t the first time. Wouldn’t be the last. Nights like this always ended the same way—staring at the edge of the abyss and wondering if falling was really the worst thing.

  The speakers erupted with a notification ping. Loud. Jarring.

  He wiped his eyes quickly with the crook of his arm and looked at the tab.

  Facebook.

  New message.

  He clicked.

  He stared.

  His heart thundered in his chest.

  The message was from Sarah.