Page 6 of Darkness

And filled Morrisey’s heart to bursting.

The last time he’d seen that sweet face three years ago… ashen, cold, bruised nearly beyond recognition, its formerly expressive features forever at rest. The man on the slab had the same sandy blond hair, though gauntness had hollowed the cheeks. What the hell had Craig been through since their last time together? He’d been dead too long to allow Morrisey to distinguish impressions through touch.

Besides, Morrisey’s own overwrought emotions got in the way.

Someone else he couldn’t save. Seeing the truth with his eyes wasn’t enough evidence for Morrisey to disconnect the phone. No, provided that he kept service on, the phone might ring someday, and a sweet voice would tell him he’d dreamed the whole thing, that Craig would be home after work, and did Morrisey want him to bring home Chinese food?

“Good night, Will. Good night, Craig,” Morrisey whispered into the darkness.

The phone rang and rang In Morrisey’s troubled dreams, but he couldn’t rise to answer.

Chapter Three

Morrisey parked his faded blue RAV4 between white lines too worn to tell if they marked a parking spot. He released a tired, smoke-filled sigh. To get to the entrance he’d have to pass the place where Will took a final breath and stopped living. There was also the matter of a department-issued car Morrisey would never go near again.

Despite his best efforts, he couldn't force the image from his mind. Maybe a shot of tequila… No. Not right before a meeting with the captain.

No avoiding the inevitable any longer. Morrisey snubbed out his smoke in the overfilled ashtray, sending a generous sprinkling of ash to the floorboards, and opened the creaky door. Keep moving. One, two… Don’t look at the spot. Don’t look. Don’t…

Damn it! He looked, then forcibly wrenched his gaze from the site. Carving his heart out with regret wouldn’t bring Will back.

Considering the pain he'd felt from Will, would bringing him back even be right?

Several officers mumbled to Morrisey as he climbed the cracked cement steps, well worn by time and foot traffic. Most saw the storm clouds in his expression and glanced away, knowing not to waste their niceties. Morrisey had run into negative numbers for fucks left to give.

Some cops had just ended their late evening shifts and were now on their way home to their families like Will used to do, and Morrisey would likely never do again. The sun hadn’t set yet but appeared to be considering the matter, sinking farther behind the nearby buildings.

The purr of car engines starting reverberated against the building, and horns honked out on the road as drivers took out their frustrations.

Morrisey strode to his office, not looking right or left until he got to the office door bearing a plaque that said “James.” The other plate stood empty, the “Murphy” plaque missing. A fist squeezed Morrisey’s heart. Someone wasted no time making Will’s passing official.

He entered and shut the door, leaning against the hard surface—the only support he’d likely get here. His messy desk sat to the right, loaded with file folders, random papers, and a chipped coffee cup he wouldn’t dare throw out—a gift from Craig that said, “Feel safe. Sleep with a cop.”

So, what are you and Craig doing this weekend? Will's ghost asked.

We’re going to dinner and dancing, Morrisey’s memory supplied.

How long ago they’d said those words—Morrisey telling Will about Craig, culminating in Craig leaving, and Will talking about the new woman he’d met named Linda, to their dating, engagement, and marriage.

Morrisey had been a groomsman.

Gradually, he shifted his gaze toward the far side of the office. No more photos of Will and his smiling family. No more miniature basketball hoop Morrisey and Will had lobbed balls at during odd moments. No ever-present can of root beer. Not even the never-ending bowl of jelly beans remained.

Nothing left. Someone cleaned out the remnants of Will’s life as though he’d never been there. Except for one item. Their jackets hung on three silver hooks on the wall. Two were Morrisey’s, the other Will’s.

Morrisey crossed the office in three long strides and snatched the gray hoodie from the hook. Tiny spots of white paint marred one sleeve from where Will had helped his oldest boy with some kind of school project. The shamrock pin on the jacket’s front came from Will’s daughter, who’d found the button at some flea market and wanted it to keep Daddy safe.

It hadn’t worked.

Morrisey slipped his hand into the hoodie’s right pocket. Something crinkled against his fingers. He pulled out the cigarette pack Will had confiscated when Morrisey backslid after three weeks with no smokes.

He should report the jacket and let someone take it to Will’s wife. Instead, Morrisey immersed himself in the warm fabric, inhaling the cheap cologne he’d complained about many times.

Linda Murphy likely had her hands full right now. She’d been surrounded by family at the funeral, barely glancing at Morrisey. Who could blame her for turning her back on the man who'd been mere feet away and hadn't prevented Will's death? No. She wouldn’t want to hear from him. Not now. Maybe never.

Would Morrisey ever stop seeing the ghost of Will in this office? He shuddered, recalling an accidental touch that revealed too much. Pain. Misery. Hopelessness. Morrisey had felt every agonizing self-doubt and fear filling Will’s mind at the end.

Nearly too much to bear.

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