Page 1 of The Locksmith's Promise

1

He’s Dead

Baxter

“He’s dead.”

“Miller?”

I recognized his voice but couldn’t process his words.

Goosebumps broke out over my scalp and ignited a trail of fire down my spine. Bracing my hand against my family room wall, I gripped my cell phone tighter. “What?”

I stared straight through the present into the past, looking beyond the freshly buffed hardwood flooring and new leather couch to the worn carpet, threadbare corduroy sofa dotted with burn marks, and the dingy kitchen with its pock-marked countertops.

I cleared my throat. “Are you serious?”

My eyes dropped to the line of fading circles running up the inside of my forearm.

Miller answered firmly, “I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

I tried to swallow with a mouth full of sand. My eyes flitted wildly around the room, bouncing from one high-end purchase to the next as I expelled the breath from my frozen lungs in icy gusts.

The community award I earned for my work on the women’s shelter sat on my bookshelf.

The landscape I bought on vacation hung on the wall behind the couch.

My guitars shone in their stands in the corner.

There were no pockmarks or burn stains here.

A tremor rolled through me.

I’d dreamed of this day. Planned for it for years before forcibly burying it in the deepest recesses of my mind.

Where was she?

I felt my way along the wall until I reached my favorite chair. Sinking down into its comfortable depths, I blew out a long, slow breath.

Was she married?

Did she have kids?

The place where my heart used to beat grew bruised and heavy.

Would she forgive me?

Are you worthy of her? Are you worthy of her like this?

“You know what else I wouldn’t joke about?” Miller continued.

“Tell me,” I demanded, parched for any hint of news.

“She’s back.”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

The best friend that never truly let me go chuckled. “See you soon, fucker.”

---