Chapter 7 - The Car at the Curb
Mark’s reflection in the glass of the bedroom window was sharp and unforgiving. Beneath the dim amber glow of the streetlamp outside, the unmarked sedan across the street sat like a coiled predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
He knew that car. He had seen variations of it parked outside safe houses in Berlin, outside transit hubs in Vienna, and idling at the edge of the tarmac when he was finally handed over to embassy officials in a quiet, midnight exchange that felt less like a rescue and more like a transfer of custody.
The door handle of the master bedroom rattled suddenly, spinning Mark around from the window with his hand instinctively dropping to the empty holster spot on his belt.
"Mark?" Clara’s voice came through the wood, timid and breathless. "Mark, please open the door. We need to talk. We can't just... the kids are terrified. They want to know what's happening."
Mark walked across the carpet, his boots silent on the plush rug, and turned the brass knob. He pulled the door open just enough for Clara to see his face. She was standing alone in the hallway; David was nowhere in sight.
"Where is he?" Mark asked, his voice low and devoid of warmth.
"He went down to the kitchen to get some water for Toby," Clara said, her eyes searching Mark’s face, desperate for some sign of the man she had married. But she found only a stranger wrapped in her husband’s skin. "Mark... what is happening? Why do you look at me like that? Like I’m a stranger?"
"You're not a stranger, Clara," Mark said, stepping slightly out into the hallway to block her view of the lockbox on the bed behind him. "You're just living a life I didn't authorize."
"Authorize?" Clara’s voice flared with sudden, defensive anger, her eyes flashing. "You were dead! What was I supposed to do? Freeze in time? Wear black for the rest of my life while the kids grew up without a father figure? David stepped up when nobody else would! He gave up his apartment, his job prospects in the city, just to help me keep this house from going under!"
"Is that what he calls it? Helping?" Mark asked, stepping closer to her. The scent of her shampoo—something floral and unfamiliar—hit him like a physical blow. "How long, Clara? How long after the memorial service did he move into this room?"
Clara flinched, her lower lip trembling as she looked away down the hallway. "That’s none of your business anymore."
"It's entirely my business," Mark whispered, leaning down slightly so his voice was meant for her ears alone. "Because the men who put me in that hole didn't do it by accident. And the people who told you I was dead weren't mistaken."
Clara’s head snapped back up, the color draining from her face entirely. "What... what are you talking about?"
May you like
Before Mark could answer, a heavy thud echoed from the bottom of the stairs, followed by the sound of breaking glass and David’s voice shouting in absolute terror.
---
