fumbling for his door key. He wants to get in there and check out the apartment. Maybe she’s left him a note. Dinner’s in the dog – that type of thing. Something that
will confirm that she’s furious with him. Something that will reassure him that she is safe and well, if perhaps a little emotionally unbalanced right now.
‘Honest to God, Nadine. It’s cool, really. Nothing to get worked up about.’
‘Cal.’
His name is delivered in the tone of a mother who is interrogating a chocolate-covered son about missing cookies. A single drawn-out syllable that manages to say, I am not going to leave you
alone until you tell me what this is all about .
Doyle can loiter here no longer. And if Nadine is not going to be shaken off, then so be it. Let her suffer the discomfort of being an intruder into a couple’s private affairs.
‘Okay, we had a little falling-out over something, that’s all. I didn’t call her when I was supposed to, and now she’s pissed. Either she’s up there, refusing to
answer the door, or else she’s taken Amy out for dinner and turned her cellphone off. She’s trying to get back at me.’
Nadine says nothing for a while, which tells Doyle that she may now finally be satisfied and that he can get on with sorting this mess out.
He puts his key into the lobby door and opens it.
‘So go home, Nadine. Let me fix this. I’ll get Rachel to call you.’
‘Okay,’ she says through a weak smile. ‘If you’re sure.’
He steps into the lobby, is on the verge of shutting the door behind him.
And then he sees it. His mailbox poking its tongue at him.
It’s a white envelope.
For a few seconds he cannot move. Doesn’t dare confirm his worst fears.
‘Cal?’
It’s Nadine. She is still behind him, obviously bemused by his behavior.
He snatches out the envelope, looks at the writing on the front. ‘Detective Doyle.’ Exactly as it appeared on the letter that was left on his car.
Now the ability to breathe has become something of an ambition. This can’t be happening.
He’s been here. The son of a bitch has been here.
Doyle rips open the envelope in one savage motion. Fuck the forensics.
His eyes try to absorb the whole message in one go.
Dear Detective Doyle,
What are you doing here?
Didn’t you understand my previous message?
I said I was cutting you off.
That means from EVERYONE .
Especially your lovely wife and daughter. Rachel and Amy.
After what happened to your partners, did you really think I was kidding?
Big mistake.
Maybe next time you’ll know better.
And then Doyle is bounding up the staircase, ignoring Nadine’s confused cries from below. Adrenalin is surging through his system. He reaches his apartment door, snatches out his Glock. An
inner voice quotes his training at him, cautioning him to use the softly-softly approach. He tells it to shut the fuck up. He puts his key into the door, swings it wide open and steps in, gun at
the ready.
‘Rachel!’
He moves speedily through his apartment, eyes scanning, finger firmly on the trigger.
‘Rachel!’
He kicks doors open. The bedrooms. The kitchen. The bathroom.
Nothing. There is nobody here.
He stands still in the center of the living room, his chest heaving, his gun still grasped in a two-handed combat stance.
A noise behind him. He whirls, his trigger finger tensing. Nadine jumps back, startled.
‘Cal? What the hell’s going on?’
‘I don’t know. Something. I don’t know. There’s a guy. He wants to hurt me.’
He knows he’s not making much sense. He can see the puzzlement and fear on Nadine’s face. But there’s no time to explain. He has to find Rachel and Amy. But how? Where to
start?
He lowers the gun, starts to look at the apartment through different eyes. Searching not for people, but for signs of disturbance. Clues hinting at a struggle. Another note perhaps.
But he sees nothing. The apartment looks exactly as it always does – tidy but not obsessively so.
He
will confirm that she’s furious with him. Something that will reassure him that she is safe and well, if perhaps a little emotionally unbalanced right now.
‘Honest to God, Nadine. It’s cool, really. Nothing to get worked up about.’
‘Cal.’
His name is delivered in the tone of a mother who is interrogating a chocolate-covered son about missing cookies. A single drawn-out syllable that manages to say, I am not going to leave you
alone until you tell me what this is all about .
Doyle can loiter here no longer. And if Nadine is not going to be shaken off, then so be it. Let her suffer the discomfort of being an intruder into a couple’s private affairs.
‘Okay, we had a little falling-out over something, that’s all. I didn’t call her when I was supposed to, and now she’s pissed. Either she’s up there, refusing to
answer the door, or else she’s taken Amy out for dinner and turned her cellphone off. She’s trying to get back at me.’
Nadine says nothing for a while, which tells Doyle that she may now finally be satisfied and that he can get on with sorting this mess out.
He puts his key into the lobby door and opens it.
‘So go home, Nadine. Let me fix this. I’ll get Rachel to call you.’
‘Okay,’ she says through a weak smile. ‘If you’re sure.’
He steps into the lobby, is on the verge of shutting the door behind him.
And then he sees it. His mailbox poking its tongue at him.
It’s a white envelope.
For a few seconds he cannot move. Doesn’t dare confirm his worst fears.
‘Cal?’
It’s Nadine. She is still behind him, obviously bemused by his behavior.
He snatches out the envelope, looks at the writing on the front. ‘Detective Doyle.’ Exactly as it appeared on the letter that was left on his car.
Now the ability to breathe has become something of an ambition. This can’t be happening.
He’s been here. The son of a bitch has been here.
Doyle rips open the envelope in one savage motion. Fuck the forensics.
His eyes try to absorb the whole message in one go.
Dear Detective Doyle,
What are you doing here?
Didn’t you understand my previous message?
I said I was cutting you off.
That means from EVERYONE .
Especially your lovely wife and daughter. Rachel and Amy.
After what happened to your partners, did you really think I was kidding?
Big mistake.
Maybe next time you’ll know better.
And then Doyle is bounding up the staircase, ignoring Nadine’s confused cries from below. Adrenalin is surging through his system. He reaches his apartment door, snatches out his Glock. An
inner voice quotes his training at him, cautioning him to use the softly-softly approach. He tells it to shut the fuck up. He puts his key into the door, swings it wide open and steps in, gun at
the ready.
‘Rachel!’
He moves speedily through his apartment, eyes scanning, finger firmly on the trigger.
‘Rachel!’
He kicks doors open. The bedrooms. The kitchen. The bathroom.
Nothing. There is nobody here.
He stands still in the center of the living room, his chest heaving, his gun still grasped in a two-handed combat stance.
A noise behind him. He whirls, his trigger finger tensing. Nadine jumps back, startled.
‘Cal? What the hell’s going on?’
‘I don’t know. Something. I don’t know. There’s a guy. He wants to hurt me.’
He knows he’s not making much sense. He can see the puzzlement and fear on Nadine’s face. But there’s no time to explain. He has to find Rachel and Amy. But how? Where to
start?
He lowers the gun, starts to look at the apartment through different eyes. Searching not for people, but for signs of disturbance. Clues hinting at a struggle. Another note perhaps.
But he sees nothing. The apartment looks exactly as it always does – tidy but not obsessively so.
He
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