“Okay … I’m walking home right now. I’ll be there in five minutes. I love you.”
Jamie paused another few seconds, just in case. Their apartment was oddly shaped: hallway, kitchen, living room, and office on one floor, then a semi-subterranean floor with two bedrooms and a small space connecting the two. Andrea could easily be downstairs, changing Chase’s diaper. It happened enough.
Forget that. Hang up, walk home, hug your wife and kid. Start to tell her the story you’ll probably be telling her the rest of your lives.
Then tell her—in as serious a voice as you can muster—that you think it’s time you quit your job.
Andrea would crack up at that.
Wouldn’t she?
Stop it.
Jamie quickened his pace, blasting by the Franklin Institute, then the main branch of the Free Library, then Starbucks, then the old Granary Building and Spring Garden and the long-closed bodega and then finally the dry cleaners, which told him he had reached Green Street. The path from Market to Green was a gradual uphill. Most days that Jamie walked home from work, he ended up a sweaty mess.
Today, none of that mattered. Not the humidity. The sun. The fire. None of it.
Jamie reached the front door and remembered: his keys.
Damn it! His keys. In his bag, back on the thirty-sixth floor.
Jamie hammered the button next to his name. Please, Andrea, hear the buzzer and answer. Let me hear that click. Your voice on this cheap-ass plastic brown box. Jamie pressed the button again.
Nothing.
He couldn’t stand this.
He pressed other buttons. His neighbors, whom he hardly knew. It wasn’t exactly a social building. Having a kid didn’t make them very popular, either.
C’mon, somebody answer. Give me a click.
Forget it. Jamie walked back down the front stairs, found a large stone in a square of dirt next to a tree, then walked back up and hurled it through the glass. He reached in, unlocked the door, and proceeded back to his apartment. He’d pay the damage. He’d pay it gladly. Smile as he wrote the check.
Their apartment was down the hall, toward the back. He was about to apply the same technique—kick in it, pay for the damages later—but saw it was already ajar.
Andrea never, ever left it open.
She was afraid of Philadelphia.
He rushed down the hall past the kitchen into the living room where the TV was on, and it was local news, covering the fire with helicopters and reporters on the street, asking inane questions about what had happened, but Jamie didn’t care about that. He wanted to see Andrea and Chase
It was dark down there, which wasn’t unusual. Andrea kept the lights low while Chase napped.
“Andrea!” Jamie shouted.
He heard something coming from the baby’s room.
A small cry.
A tiny little
Oh, thank Christ.
Jamie rounded the bend and looked into Chase’s room. Andrea was there in the wooden rocking chair, holding Chase in her arms, humming to him. Only Andrea looked different. She was only wearing underwear.
“Andrea?”
The room was dark. He needed to see them. Touch them. Smell them.
His hand found the light switch. But before he could flip it, she spoke.
“You didn’t tell me he looks just like you.”
Jamie turned on the lights.
And he screamed.
Acknowledgments
The creator of
would like to single out the following staff members for exemplary service:
Meredith, Parker, and Sarah Swierczynski, Allan Guthrie, Marc Resnick, David Hale Smith, Angela Cheng Caplan, Danny Baror, and Shauyi Tai.
Matthew Baldacci, Bob Berkel, Julie Gutin, Sarah Lumnah, Lauren Manzella, Andrew Martin, Matthew Sharp, Eliani Torres, Tomm Coker, Dennis Calero, and the entire team at St. Martin’s Minotaur.
Axel Alonso, Ray Banks, Lou Boxer, Ed Brubaker, Ken Bruen, Aldo Calcagno, Jon Cavalier, Nick Childs, Michael Connelly, Bill Crider, Paul Curci, Albin Dixon, Father Luke Elijah, Loren Feldman, Ron Geraci, Greg Gillespie, Maggie Griffin, Paul Guyot, Ethan Iverson, Jon and Ruth Jordan, Jennifer Jordan, McKenna Jordan, Deen Kogan, Terrill Lee Lankford, Joe R. Lansdale, Paul Leyden, Laura Lippman, Michelle Monaghan, H. Keith Melton, Karin Montin, Edward Pettit, Tom Piccirilli, Will Rokos, Greg Rucka, Warren Simons, Kevin Burton Smith, Mark Stanton, David Thompson, Andra Tracy, Peter Weller, Dave White, and all my friends and family.
About the Author
is the author of
(St. Martin’s Minotaur) and the writer for the Monthly Marvel Comics series
Until recently he was the editor-in-chief of the
and almost never wanted to kill his employees.
Visit him at
www.duaneswierczynski.com
