Page 47

Brett: Max, if something is happening with Laura and the baby, please let me know.

I know we’ve never gotten along, and don’t take this the wrong way, but I still love her.

I care about her. She’s the mother of my children, for crying out loud.

Please, text me, call me, whatever. Just please answer me .

There was no Chinese in the kitchen.

My phone began to ring. This time, I heard the chime, set to the highest possible volume. It rang clearly through the house, echoing off the empty walls. It was so damn loud.

Laura and the girls playfully teased me about it sometimes, saying things like, “Is that loud enough for you, Max?”

It choked me up now to acknowledge that I hadn’t heard it at all while I was sleeping. It rang and rang and rang, and I hadn’t heard a fucking thing.

God, something is wrong. Something is fucking wrong, and I slept through it.

Deaf fucking asshole. Useless.

What am I going to do if the baby starts crying and I don’t hear him? What kid deserves a dad like that?

Fucking useless bastard.

I squeezed my eyes shut, pushing my father’s faraway voice out of my head as I put the phone to my ear. “Brett.”

“Max! Jesus fucking Christ! Finally! Where the hell are you? Are you at home?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, walking through the kitchen to the front of the house. “I … I slept and my hearing aids—"

“ Are you at home ?” he asked, enunciating every word slowly, loudly, treating me like a moron. A deaf moron.

“I am …”

My voice trailed off when I looked through the living room window and spotted Laura’s car, parked in the driveway, exactly where it always was when she was home and exactly where it shouldn’t be right now.

“I gotta go, Brett.”

“Where the hell is Laura, Max?”

I turned around in the living room, my heart bouncing violently off the walls of my chest. My hands trembled, my lungs struggled to pull in air, the pain in my head intensified. If she was here now, where were her things? Her bag, her coat …

She was bringing home food, dinner, Chinese …

There was no food in the kitchen.

“Babe?” I called out, spinning on my heel.

“What the hell is going on over there, Max?!”

My unsteady breath hit the phone as I said, “Her … her car is here.”

“So, she’s there?”

“I don’t know. I’ll call you back.”

I hung up before he had the chance to say anything more, and I hurried to the door, throwing it open. The cold wind whipped violently against my face, stinging and biting viciously, and I squinted through the darkness at her car parked beside mine in the driveway. She was home, but where ?

“Laura!” I called even louder and didn’t receive an answer.

Holding my hand above my eyes to shield them against the unforgiving gale, I walked toward the edge of the porch, triggering the motion sensor light and illuminating a steady snowfall.

I swept my gaze over the yard, looking for any sign that she’d been there.

I didn’t know when it’d begun to snow, but any footprints she might’ve left had since been covered.

I was about to turn back into the house, thinking of all the places I hadn’t checked. The girls’ bedrooms, the nursery, the basement …

Until I saw the brown paper bag, peeking out from beneath a layer of snow, lying just to the side of the brick path, leading from the driveway to the porch steps. It lay on its side, white Chinese takeout boxes spilling out into the snow.

Panic and fear—so much fucking fear—settled deeply in my chest, making it hard to breathe as I walked on unsteady legs down one step, two …

I slipped, lost my footing. I cursed as I reached frantically for the banister, clinging to the cold, snow-covered wood as I skidded in my socks down the rest of the steps—all eight of them—until I landed on my ass at the bottom with a wince and a groan.

The ice. I was supposed to salt the porch. I was …

“Oh God,” I uttered, the words squeezing through my throat beneath the weight of impossible terror and pain. “ Oh God !”

I fell forward on my hands and knees and crawled to Laura’s snow-dusted form, lying to the side of the porch steps.

God, God, God.

She must’ve slipped and fallen over the side of the railing, and …

“No,” I whispered, my voice barely reaching my ears—my stupid, fucking broken ears—as I rolled her over onto her back to find her face. “No, no, no, no. No, God, no. Please , no .”

Her eyes were closed, her lips were parted, an angel at rest—but, no, she was sleeping .

Yes, that’s all. Passed out. That’s what this is. That’s all it can be.

“Laura? Baby?”

I touched every part of her face—her beautiful, perfect face—brushing the hair and wet, cold snow away. Then I thought I began to cry. I must have been. My face was wet, and drops of water were falling, pattering softly against her coat.

“Baby, please, please, please wake up. Please, Laura, just wake up .”

I smoothed her hair back over her head, begging, pleading, crying …

and then I felt something at her temple.

Something cold and sticky. I blinked back the tears, knowing what I would find, but— no !

If I didn’t look, if I didn’t check, it wouldn’t be real.

She would wake up. She would, yes. She would be okay.

She’d be here, we’d eat dinner, I’d stay home from work, I’d—

“ No ! Oh God, I-I can’t do this,” I sobbed, shaking my head and cradling her cold face in my hands. “I can’t do this, baby. Wake up. God, please, please, please, please wake up ! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry … oh God …”

Get a hold of yourself, Tailor. Breathe.

I sucked in the frozen air, attempting to awaken my paralyzed lungs. I blew steady breaths in and out, regaining whatever control I had left. Then, gently—so, so, so gently—I turned her head to the side to find the blood that drenched her hair, the side of her neck, all the way down to her coat.

How had I missed it? Her body must’ve hidden it, but, God, it was everywhere. All over the bricks, the snow beneath where her body had lain.

With trembling hands, I pressed two fingers to her neck and stared at her closed eyes as I held my body as still as stone, waiting for even the faintest flutter of a pulse, the faintest glimmer of hope , only to feel … nothing.

She was dead.

She had died, cold and alone, while I slept, oblivious.

The baby.

A sob tore through my throat as I pushed back on my heels and held my hands to her stomach.

My phone.

Where the hell is my phone?

I scrambled to my feet and looked around for my cell phone. It was white—something I hadn’t picked, but settled for because it was on sale—and it was likely blending in with the snow.

It must’ve fallen out of my hand when I slipped down the stairs.

The stairs. The ice.

I did this.

Laura .

The baby.

What if the baby is alive?

“Help!” I screamed, oblivious to the pain in my throat as I hurried back to her. To them . “Somebody, help me! Help! Please ! ”

I looked off toward the direction of the closest neighbor’s house.

We lived on a little less than half an acre of land, and everything surrounding our property was dark now.

I didn’t know if anyone was home or awake, but I had to try.

I had to try something . I thought about running, thought about pounding on their door, but I couldn’t leave her.

So, I pulled my wife’s lifeless body into my arms and screamed and screamed and screamed, praying that someone would hear, that someone would help , that someone could bring her back to me.

Please, God, bring her back.

But there was no answer. Not from a neighbor, not from God, and all I could hear was an animalistic cry of agonizing pain and a deep, unimaginable sorrow slicing through the silent night.

I thought it was me.