Rundown (Curveball Book 2) (2 page)

“
When
I entered the building, I discovered a male, early-to-mid 40’s,
lying unresponsive on the floor.”

The
dish I didn’t remember carrying with me to the door shatters on the
ground.  I’m vaguely aware of footsteps closing in on me, and
a hand wrapping around my arm.

“
The
picture on your husband’s license, which was found at the scene,
matches the body.”

A
gagging sound escapes my throat, and I’m not sure if I’m going to
cry or vomit. I’m suddenly freezing and everything sounds like it’s
being said under water.

“
Body.
You said body.” I mutter when I find my voice.  Body implies
lifeless.  I just saw Mark and he was very much alive.  I
stare at the Officer, willing him not to say what I fear is coming
next.

“
Yes,
ma’am.  In his state―”.  The Officer pauses.  “There
was nothing I could have done.”

“
What
state?”

“
It
appears that your husband has died of a self-inflicted gunshot
wound,” he tells me.  “I’m sorry ma’am, but I’m going
to need you to come with me to identify the body.  Is there
someone who can drive you?”

The
car stops and Vivian physically pulls me from the vehicle.  I
don’t remember leaving my house.  I’m not sure I even said
goodbye to the kids.  If asked what hospital I’m at, I
wouldn’t know.  I’m moving, but barely and all I can think
is that I’m about to see Mark. No, not Mark. I’m going to see his
body.  My pulse is thudding loudly and I’m struggling to take
in air.  My chest must have caved in on my lungs because it
fucking hurts.  Everything is dull, and yet incredibly painful
at the same time. 

I
lift my eyes from the floor when I realize we’ve stopped outside
the door of the morgue.  My stomach begins to spasm as my mouth
pools with saliva.  I’m sweating and dizzy.  I’m going
to be sick, I know it.  Unfortunately, the thought is one step
behind my body.  I barely have time to lean forward before I
begin heaving, watching as the contents of my breakfast land on my
feet.  

Vivian’s
arms wrap around me tightly as she helps me navigate around the
mess.  “Let me go in, Breanne.  This is not how you
should remember Mark.  Maybe it’s not even him.”

I
automatically nod at my friend, who is also Mark’s co-worker. 
I would never have asked her to do this for me, but she offered and I
can’t think of why I should disagree.  She asks the Officer to
stand with me and squeezes me once before letting me go. I watch her
push through the doors and quickly close my eyes.

Please
don’t be Mark.  Please don’t be Mark.

Moments
later, the sound of Vivian’s high-heels clicking against the floor,
halts my silent prayer.  I open my eyes as she steps back
through the door, and take in her appearance.  Despite all the
makeup she wears, her face is void of color.  She’s fighting
back tears as she slowly nods her head in a silent ‘yes’, to
which I frantically shake my head ‘no’.

“
It’s
him.  It’s Mark.”  I can’t be sure if she’s
confirming this for my benefit, or for the Officer.

I
stare at her blankly.  It’s him.  Mark has taken his own
life.  My husband is dead.  My children no longer have a
father.  He’s dead.  He ended his own life.

With
every thought I feel less like myself.  “No, no, no,” I
slowly repeat several times.

I
feel empty, and at the same time I’m overwhelmed with too much
emotion.  I rake my hands through my hair and begin pacing back
and forth in front of the door.  Both hands clutch every piece
of available hair and I pull as hard as I can until my scalp burns in
pain.  

“
Breanne,”
Vivian says quietly, stepping forward.  “Let me take you
home.” She attempts to stop me from pulling out my hair, but I just
swat her away.  

 “
Nooooo!” 
My bloodcurdling scream echoes throughout the building, followed by
several choking sounds and another round of screaming.  Without
consciously choosing to do so, I lunge forward toward the doors. 
“Nooo!  Nooo!”

I
freeze in place once I’ve taken two steps inside the morgue. 
The only things that separate me from Mark’s body are Vivian and
the mortician. 

“
Breanne,
don’t go any closer,” Vivian pleads.  “This is not how you
want to remember Mark.  I know he wouldn’t want you to see him
this way.” 

“
Then
he shouldn’t have done this!” I shout in between sobs. 

I
glance over Vivian’s shoulder while she wrestles me back, and get a
glimpse at Mark’s face.  Even at this distance, there’s no
denying it’s him, though he’s swollen and pale, despite all the
blood.  This is real…he really did this.

“
Why?”
I cry. I have the sudden urge to physically break something.  I
want to slam my fists into his vacant body and beat the life back
into him so he can feel the pain he’s caused me.  “Why?” 
My unanswered demand is shrill and my breathing is erratic.

“
Oh
God, Mark!  How could you?  You coward. How could you?” 
I realize that the ability to stand has become too difficult when the
impact of my limp body hitting the floor causes a loud thud that
echoes around the sterile room.  All I can do is crumple further
against the cold floor and pray that someone will take me away from
here.

I
hear the sound of Mark’s body bag being zipped up as the officer
lifts me off the ground and carries me towards the door.  I
close my eyes and wonder if I made a request out loud, but I don’t
question it, because it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now…except
understanding why he did this.  

I
lift my head slightly so I can see the Officer’s face.  “Did
he leave a note?”

“
He
did,” the officer confirms.

“
What
does it say?” I ask.  

The
officer stops immediately and sets me down on the ground.

“
You
forgot the blueberries.”

I
awake startled, gasping for air while launching myself into
a sitting position.  Clutching the blankets, my eyes dart around
the room, trying to get my bearings.  It only takes a few
seconds to grasp reality, but knowing where my unconscious mind was
focused, still gives me the chills.

“
Shit,”
I exhale, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead.  God, I
haven’t had that nightmare in forever…not since Sergeant
Dosdell showed up with evidence supporting my theories on Mark’s
death anyway.

Sighing,
I run my fingers through my hair and then draw my legs up to hug
my knees.  Anytime this nightmare occurs, it’s basically the
same.  All the events leading up to my collapse on the morgue
floor are actually memories from that horrible day, but the end of
the nightmare always varies.  Sometimes I burst through the door
and find Mark sitting on the table laughing.  Other times
there’s no body at all.  Once, tears fell from his eyes as I
was carried away.  But the worst was the time his corpse pulled
me into the refrigerated drawer with him as I tried unsuccessfully to
claw my way out.  Despite all the variations my brain has
concocted, listing blueberries in his suicide note is definitely a
first.  

It’s
been two years since my husband Mark died of an apparent suicide, and
in a few days his body will be exhumed to re-evaluate his cause of
death.  Once I got over the initial anger and realized that
suicide wasn’t something he would have done, I practically became
obsessed with finding answers.  I’ve been so determined to
find out what really happened to him, that you’d think I’d be
relieved that something was finally being done about my
suspicions…I’m not.  

To
say I’m dreading it would be an understatement.  Perhaps my
subconscious is freaking out about discovering the truth.  Part
of me knows that the truth is something that will change how I
remember him, and if that’s the case, then maybe I don’t want to
know.  Unfortunately, at this point it’s just another thing
adding to my mounting stress.  

I
glance over at the clock on my bedside table and inwardly groan. 
It’s barely 2am.  I’m determined to try to fall back asleep,
though I doubt I’ll be able to.  My mind was racing long
before I woke up.  Now, there’s no way I can turn it off. 
At least the kids are still in their own beds.  
I slide
back under the covers and roll to my side, closing my eyes and
willing my mind to push away my worries.  

As
I lie there, I mentally tick off my problems—Mark’s death, the
plane crash, losing Drew. As they say, bad things happen in three’s,
and I can only hope this means I’m due for some good luck.  What’s
interesting is that I can easily dismiss the first two issues, which
technically should be considered far more traumatic than the third.
 Only, that’s what I can’t get out of my mind no matter how
hard I try—the unnecessary amount of misery I’ve caused both
myself and Drew.

Drew
Scott, the man who saved my life and reminded me what it was like to
be alive and feel happiness again, is missing.  Alright, so
technically Drew isn’t missing.   He’s avoiding me.
 He’s cut me out of his life, which is exactly what I asked
for until I realized how stupid I’d been. 

Mission
accomplished.
 

I’ve
called and texted.  I even went to his house and left
a handwritten apology on his door.  What have I gotten in
return?  Absolute silence.  I can’t reach him and I have
no idea where he is.  I know I deserve his rejection.  For
everything I said, I deserve far worse.  On some level, I’m
sure the stress of losing Drew is causing me to relive my previous
loss.  If I’m honest, it scares me that the pain and
uncertainty of my future with Drew, far outweighs the pain of my
past.

Stroking
the gem of my necklace with one hand, I roll to my back and stare up
at the ceiling, wondering where Drew is at this very moment and if
there will ever come a time when he doesn’t consumes almost every
thought I have.  I constantly wonder if he hates me for the
awful things I said to him, even though we both knew my words were
lies.  Or has he realized that he deserves far more than I could
give him and has already moved on?

That
is my worst fear…that I’ve caused irreparable damage and I’ll
pay the price by losing him forever.  I want nothing more than
to have him back.  I just need a chance to make things
right.

My
phone pings and I quickly crawl out of bed.  Based on the sound,
I already know that it’s not a text or voicemail.  No, it’s
a notification from Google Alerts.  I’m so desperate for any
news on Drew that I’ve stooped to Internet stalking.  I unplug
my phone from the charger, swipe my finger across the screen and
quickly type in my passcode.  I select the notification and
immediately wish I hadn’t when I see Drew’s picture gracing the
front-page of a tabloid site.  Well, he and some brunette, both
of whom appear to be drunk and stumbling out of a bathroom at some
Boston bar.  

As
a pitcher for the Boston Red Sox, Drew was front-page news even
before we survived an ambushed flight.  Now, it’s even worse. 
He’s a famous athlete who’s survived the unthinkable, and is
single to boot.  Add to that, the fact that his contract hasn’t
yet been renewed due to an old injury, and you’ve got a person with
America’s full support and sympathy.   The paparazzi
follow him everywhere and try to make stories out of nothing. 
Unfortunately, it looks like this time they actually had something to
write about.