“You shouldn’t think about stuff like that,” Gage said, tentatively reaching a hand out to touch the edge of her foot.
“It’s my job to think about this stuff,” Fiona snapped, pulling her foot away from his touch. “And anyway, it’s not like I have any choice. The thoughts…they don’t fucking stop. They just don’t ever fucking stop.”
That was the part that killed him, the part that tortured him months later as he ruminated on the incident alone in his office. He should have said something. He should have fought with her and argued with her and made her so mad that she had to stay with him, if only to continue to yell at him for the rest of her life. He should have said what popped into his mind at that moment because he’d understood what she meant. The images. They’d flooded his brain, just like hers, one after another after another after another, and there was no running away from them. There was no hiding. Almost once a week, they appeared for Gage, for the last fifteen years—images of his sister, tied up, utterly helpless, and utterly hopeless as she awaited her death. No matter how hard he fought to push the thoughts away, they stuck to his brain like his thoughts were made of Velcro.
But maybe saying that wouldn’t have helped, either. Maybe he understood it a little too well. Maybe that had been the problem all along.
“I think I need to go, Gage,” Fiona had said after a long silence that stretched on for several uncomfortable minutes. “Do you know what I mean?”
He shook his head, but she probably couldn’t have seen him in the darkness of their bedroom. In any case, she must have understood his answer, regardless, because she spoke again a minute later. “I need to get away from the city. I need to get out of here.”
A thousand things popped into Gage’s head at that moment. This city isn’t so bad. Or, the city needs you, Fiona. Or, I need this city to feel alive, why can’t you understand that?
Instead, he said, “Why don’t you just try to hold on until the spring? Things always get better then. You’ll be happier. We’ll be happier. Why don’t you just try, Fiona?”
She cleared her throat before finishing the bottle of wine, tossing it over the side of the bed with a loud clattering noise. Then, she collapsed onto her side, curling up in the fetal position, facing away from Gage. “Can’t,” she murmured.
She was telling the truth. That was the horrible thing, the thing that Gage couldn’t run from. Fiona meant what she said. She was done. Finished. Completely worn-out. Her work dealing with murderers and their victims had drained her like an overused towel, wrung out each morning to begin the same thankless work over and over again. But it was over now, and Gage knew Fiona’s decision without her voicing it aloud. She was leaving him, along with the city, as soon as possible. Staring at her as she cuddled with the sheets on their bed, he knew he’d already lost her.
“Really?” he whispered to her, the word falling out of his mouth without his brain’s permission.
“Can’t,” Fiona repeated, like it was the only thing she was capable of saying now. It seemed that her work of dealing with such horrors had removed everything inside of her: her hope, her passion, her strength, her speech, and her love. Gage knew there was no point in trying to stop her. She’d already made her mind up. There was no going back.
As the memory faded away—slowly, like a sandcastle gradually effaced by the waves of the ocean—Gage returned to himself, sighing deeply in the silence of his empty office. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his neck to create a makeshift headrest and bending his head back as he stared at the computer screen, his blood powerfully thrumming through his veins even as he sat perfectly still, just waiting for Fiona to elaborate. After a few minutes, it became clear that she wasn’t going to say anything more without being prompted.
His fingers itched to type out another message. “Yes? What do you mean, yes? Are you coming to help me?” he wanted to say, but he held himself back. If he came on too strong, he might just scare her off, and he really, really didn’t want that.
Gage leaned up to the computer again, his hands hovering over the keyboard as he wracked his mind for the right thing to say. It used to be so easy for him to talk to Fiona. He understood her so well and vice versa. But talking to her now was like trying to defuse a nuclear bomb with sweaty, imprecise fingers. What could he say that wouldn’t piss her off or make her less likely to cooperate with him to save Tori?
Before he could respond to her e-mail, he heard his cell phone make a shrill “ping” noise. He just received a text message. Who was messaging him at 8:00 in the morning? Gage pulled his phone out from his pocket, revealing a new, unread message from an unfamiliar number.