Page 56 of Dark Knight

It also made sure to completely kill any chance I had of getting through the task list I set for myself last night before catching a few hours of sleep before my Italian contacts began reaching out. There I was, trying to keep a sense of structure so I wouldn’t lose myself thinking about Tatum. Obsessing over her. Blaming myself for all the fuck-ups so far.

Some things you can’t plan for. When am I going to learn that?

It’s late by the time I give up on the hope of finishing anything tonight. All I’ve done since Becky left is think and blame myself and wonder how life would’ve been if it wasn’t for that night. The night I met Callum Torrio and everything changed. How the fuck is it possible that I spent so many years never thinking about this place? About her? About what my life would have been if only a couple of things had gone differently. Like that movie Becky made me watch once, the one where the girl’s life splits into two parallel timelines based on whether or not she made the train home one day.

I never thought about that movie again until just now, pacing the office floor. How many times have I done that today? I don’t have a fucking clue. I only know it hasn’t helped.

If I hadn’t brought her back to the house that night for dinner.

If I hadn’t let him lure me into a fight.

If I hadn’t, if I hadn’t, if I hadn’t. If. Two fucking letters, but they hold a lifetime’s worth of meaning. Guilt, regret, and maybe the tiniest bit of relief. I could’ve been trapped here for the rest of my life if not for that night. Now, I must wrestle with the comfort, regret, and hatred all burning a hole in me. I even hate Tatum for making me come here and dredging this shit up. It’s not her fault, but I hate her for it.

I don’t know where she is in the house. I only know she’s been quiet enough to make me suspicious. I can imagine her spinning countless stories in her head, ready to pounce on me as soon as I show my face. What’s the alternative? Letting myself starve? I must be losing it. I have nothing to hide from and nothing to fear. She doesn’t need to know shit about me unless I feel like sharing, which I do not. I’m sure she knows what she can do if she’s got a problem with that.

It turns out her bedroom door is closed, and the living room light is off when I look out into the hall for the first time in hours. There’s some muffled dialogue and laughter coming from inside the room at the other end. She’s watching another sitcom. That’s better than overhearing a whispered conversation with Bianca– that, I would expect. I know better than to take this as a sign that she’s keeping Becky’s appearance to herself. It’s only a matter of time before she decides to blab to her best friend. I don’t even know why it pisses me off so much to think about it. Nothing she thinks can hurt me. And whatever she comes up with in that busy brain of hers can’t possibly come close to the truth, anyway. Even if it did, what would it matter? I learned a long time ago, on a muggy night in June, about the worst things that can happen to a person. I’ve seen something as close to hell as I can imagine. Something that left me with no fear of some made-up place where sinners go when they die. And since that night, I’ve never feared an afterlife. After everything I’ve done, the lives I’ve ended, and the pain I’ve inflicted, I have no fear of what happens afterward.

The first floor is dark, full of ghosts that tug at my sleeve and beg for my attention as I walk barefoot across the floor until I reach the kitchen, where Tatum left the light on over the stove. She taped a note to the range hood, a piece of scrap paper covered in her large, loopy handwriting. Left you some chicken and rice in the oven if you want it. When I open the door, I find a small Pyrex pan covered in foil in the warm oven.

Even that sets my teeth on edge, leaving me disgusted with myself. I can’t accept a small gesture like this without wondering what’s behind it. What’s in it for her? Or is it because she feels sorry for me? She’s not stupid – I’m sure she put it together. Becky, being my ex, and my reaction down at the lake when her name came up. What, does she think I need comforting now? A friend? For fuck’s sake.

I’m not hungry – an empty stomach doesn’t mean I feel like going through the motions. Instead of pulling the dish from the oven, I turn off the heat, then pull the note from the range hood and crumple it in my fist before tossing it in the trash can. I need something a hell of a lot stronger than chicken and rice to get me through the darkness I’m trapped in.

I don’t know what makes me think about the bottles under the sink. I haven’t looked at them since the day we got here, when I performed sort of a tour, checking to make sure what I requested was in place. I haven’t given them another thought until now, when I reach under the counter into the narrow space not big enough to store much of anything but a few liquor bottles. Considering I don’t drink, I’m not sure why I made it a point to have them here.

Deep down inside, I probably knew it was inevitable. There would have to come a night when I would need a drink badly. If Tatum’s either too afraid to face me, or too pissed that I dismissed her earlier when Becky was here, I’m safe. I won’t make a mistake like turning to her for forgetfulness in a drunken stupor. Yes, that’s what I want more than anything, to forget. To sink myself deep in her tight, wet heat and obliterate every other thought from my mind.

Since I can’t do that, I settle for uncapping the whiskey and pouring myself a drink – then making it a double. “Why not? I’m not driving,” I mutter to myself, snickering before I raise the glass to my lips. There’s no savoring the taste. There’s only downing it in one quick gulp. It’s the burn I savor, the way the liquor carves a flaming path through me. I stare at my bruised knuckles in the light over the stove. Maybe I have a thing for pain. Maybe I know I need to be punished. If anybody does, it’s me. Thinking I could turn my back on my failures, and that would somehow magically make them disappear. There isn’t a punishment severe enough to make up for that stupidity. That laziness.

I finish off the glass and pour another, and I don’t stop until the amber liquid nears the rim. I don’t deserve oblivion, but I crave it with every part of me as I down another mouthful, then another, gasping for breath after swallowing.

Reality comes crashing down on me just as my senses become mercifully dull. Shit. I was supposed to touch base with Callum tonight. I should’ve done that before I started tearing my way through this bottle. Before I go too fuzzy, I pull out my phone, determined to get it over with so I can go back to drowning my sorrows. My pitiful, pathetic, fucking sorrows.

He answers immediately. “What’s the good news?”

I can’t hold back a soft laugh at his hopeful greeting. Doesn’t he know by now there’s no such thing? Everything has a double edge. “We’re closer, but not as close as I wanted to be by the time I called you tonight. Almost there, though. There’s a few loose ends left to tie up.”

At first, I take his silence for disapproval. I can see him at his desk in his quiet office, with the grounds spread out beyond the window. With Jack and the rest of them now dead, I’m sure it’s peaceful there. He’s no longer wrestling with demons, so he has the bandwidth to scrutinize me.

Instead of voicing disappointment, he asks, “Are you feeling alright? You don’t sound like yourself. And this isn’t the first time I’ve had to say that.”

“Not to worry. Everything out here is under control.” There I go, lying to the man I owe my life to. I’ve repeatedly hurt his daughter, knowing he trusts me, telling myself at least I haven’t given in. At least I haven’t fucked her. Like that makes me a saint. Like that undoes the pain I’ve caused with all this back-and-forth bullshit.

“Is it that bad?”

“Is what that bad?”

“Do I need to talk to her? If she’s driving you to drink, we have problems.”

Like I didn’t already feel like a piece of shit. He’s blaming it on her. “No, really. I’m going a little stir-crazy, that’s all. And I figure there’s nothing else to do, so why not have a drink?”

“So long as she’s not pushing your buttons.”

“That’s what she does best,” I admit with a soft chuckle. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Good. And she’s doing well?”

“She’s watching TV in her room. She’s fine.” I found Amanda’s urn on the coffee table. No, he doesn’t need to hear about that. I don’t know for sure what it means, anyway. Only that she’s been messing with it. Thinking about her worthless mother yet again.

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