Marked

bullet in his brain. You really hate this guy so much, then take him out.’

Doyle stares at the younger man. He wonders how things got to be so twisted around. How it is that he, Doyle, is acting like a rookie who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, while LeBlanc is being the true professional. How did that happen? When did the world get turned upside down?

He has no answers. And he has no words for LeBlanc. Instead, he starts walking away. He’s done here. He doesn’t care anymore, and maybe that’s because he cared too much. Let LeBlanc make his call. Let him report Doyle to the bosses. Let them take him off the case, off the squad, off the job.

Who gives a fuck?

EIGHTEEN

The noise is driving her crazy.

The hammering, the drilling, the sawing — she can’t hear herself think. It was going on most of yesterday, and it was going on when she had breakfast this morning, and now it’s lunchtime and it’s still going on. What the hell is he doing in there?

Nicole pours the remainder of her still-steaming coffee down the drain and places her cup in the sink. She walks across to the door leading into the garage, then pauses.

It’s gone quiet. Eerily so. She puts her ear to the door. Nothing. Not even the shuffling of Steve’s feet. She presses her head harder against the wood. Holds her breath. .

Whirrrrr.

She leaps back, afraid that a drill bit is about to come straight through the door and into her skull. Angrily, she flings the door open and steps inside. Ready to confront him.

Only she can’t speak.

She can’t talk because of what she sees here. This is not the garage she was expecting. All of its contents have been pushed to one end. In the center of the space, Steve has set up his workbench. A length of wood lies across it, and on top of that is a saw and a retractable tape measure.

But what really grabs Nicole’s attention here is the shelving. Miles of it. Or at least there will be when Steve has finished. Almost every square inch of wall space now has brackets running up it, and some are already supporting wooden shelves.

Steve is standing at the wall separating the garage from the kitchen. He is holding a cordless drill. There is masonry dust and wood shavings all down the front of his coverall and on his face. He looks blankly at his wife as if to say, What’s the problem?

‘Steve,’ she says. ‘What are you doing?’

‘The place is a mess. It needs organizing. I want it neat and tidy.’

She stares at him, incredulous. ‘You want. . What about what I want? Were you planning to consult me on this major change to our property?’

‘Nicole, don’t wig out over a few shelves. You never come in here anyway. Anytime you want something you send me in here to find it. Takes me hours sometimes, going through all that stuff.’ He gestures behind him at the boxes and crates and bicycles and gardening equipment. ‘This way we’ll be able to find things instantly.’

Nicole moves into the center of the garage and looks again at Steve’s handiwork. She’s not convinced that all these shelves are necessary. Not at all sure that they have enough items in here to fill them.

She turns to look at the possessions they keep in the garage, and notices that Steve seems to have divided them into two piles, one larger than the other. She steps closer to the smaller pile. Opens up one of the boxes. It’s full of old auto magazines.

‘Steve, what are the boxes on this side of the garage?’

He turns to face her, the drill still in his hand. ‘Things we can throw out. We don’t need them anymore.’

She nods, but something tugs at her. Whispering to her that something isn’t right here. It’s in Steve’s body language. It’s in his voice. Awkwardness. Anxiety.

She opens another box. Peers inside. Her heart stops. She faces Steve again, sees the guilt on his face.

‘Steve. Please tell me you’ve made a mistake.’

‘What?’ he says, but she can tell that he understands her exactly.

‘Some of Megan’s things are in this box. In this pile that you say is garbage.’

‘I didn’t say they were garbage. That’s not the word I used.’

‘You want to throw them out. What the hell else do you call stuff you’re throwing out?’

‘I. . It’s all really old stuff, Nicole. Stuff we never look at anymore. Stuff you probably don’t even remember keeping. When’s the last time you asked me to dig out any of those things, huh?’

She glares at him. Her eyes blur. She wipes away the tears.

‘I don’t believe you,’ she says. ‘Megan has been dead for what seems like five minutes, and already you’re throwing away her stuff. How could you do that? How could that idea even occur to you?’

He shifts his gaze away from her then, and she can tell that he’s lost the argument. He knows that what he did is wrong. Probably knew it when he set up the two piles. But he did it anyway. What she can’t comprehend is why.

She hopes he will explain. She hopes he will apologize and say that he didn’t know what he was thinking, and then he will cry and they will talk and they will start to come to terms with their grief.

But instead, when he looks back at her there is anger in his eyes. ‘Nicole, we have to move on. The only way we’re going to survive this is if we move on. Megan is dead, and we have to accept that.’

She takes a step toward him. ‘No, Steve. You have to accept it.’

‘What do you mean?’

She waves her arms to indicate the space around them. ‘All this! The way you’re keeping so busy. The way you won’t come near me. The way you won’t talk. The way you’re pushing Megan’s things away from you. You’re in denial, Steve. Can’t you see that?’

He shakes his head, and his lips twist into a sneer. ‘That’s crap.’

‘No. No, it isn’t. Take a look at yourself. Tell me this is normal. Tell me you’re acting exactly the same way you did before Megan was taken from us.’

‘Of course I’m not the same. Nothing is the same. I’m just trying to cope, Nicole. You do it your way and I’ll do it mine. Is that okay with you?’

She goes back to the box and takes out one of the items. A swimming trophy. A shiny shield set upon a polished wooden plinth. One of the first things Megan ever won. She carries it over to Steve and holds it up to his face.

‘This is Megan, Steve. It’s not just a memory. It’s what she was. And it’s all we have left of her. If you think you’re coping, then fine. But don’t you dare, don’t you dare, throw anything of Megan’s away. Not a trophy, not a photograph, not a school report, not even a drawing she made when she was two. Because if you do, if I find that a single possession of hers has gone missing, then I’m going missing too. I’m taking Megan’s things and I’m walking out of this house and I’m never coming back. Do you understand me?’

He looks at her for some time, and she tries to work out what’s going through his head. Is he ashamed? Or is he steeling himself for round two?

‘I hear ya,’ is all he says. Which tells her only that he doesn’t want to continue this conversation. It’s a nothing answer. A cop-out. She feels her own anger growing. She wants to slap this man, to bring him out of this semi-conscious state he has imposed on himself.

But then suddenly her rage is elbowed out by pity. This is her husband. Megan’s father. He wasn’t responsible for her death. He didn’t ask for this. And he can’t deal with it. That’s not his fault either. He is strong in so many ways but he can’t handle this. What is so wrong with that? What is so weak about a man who cannot accept the loss of his only child, his beautiful daughter?

She takes a step closer. She wants to hug him. Wants him to hug her. She reaches out a hand and touches it to his arm.