She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,114

with you. You certainly have a right to hear about it, since your name appears more than once. Not in the most flattering light, I’m afraid. This one particular incident, where you groped the unfortunate Sandy Newman in the cafeteria three years ago, in front of three other coworkers without any regard for the consequences, that says a lot about you as a person, your character. Nothing I didn’t already know, but enlightening nonetheless. I should be shocked they only suspended you for a week, but considering some of the other things I’ve read, I’m not surprised at all.”

Carl turned to Warren. “Are those employee files?”

“That’s crazy. Why would someone give him employee files? The kid’s just messing with you.”

“Then how would he know about Sandy Newman?”

“Everybody knows about Sandy Newman.”

“Nobody would have told him.”

“You don’t know that.”

On the monitor, Subject “D” returned to the file spread out on his table.

Warren’s eyes dropped back to the copy of Along Came a Spider by James Patterson in his hands.

- Observer’s Note: Throughout the duration of this conversation, as well as the proceeding forty-eight minutes, Warren Beeson did not turn the page.

—Charter Observation Team – 309

24

The dream didn’t come.

There was no dream. There was nothing but blackness, emptiness, a dark hole that ate everything else.

For the third time in as many months, I woke to a heavy knock at my door.

“Jack? Get up. You’ll want to see this.”

Willy.

The rain had stopped.

Hazy, early morning light filled my window.

At some point, I kicked off my sneakers, but I still wore the same jeans and sweatshirt I had last night, still soaked, as was my bedspread, the sheets, and probably my mattress.

“What is it?” I muttered.

“On TV. You need to see it.”

I glanced at the digital clock beside my bed.

6:05.

I crawled out of the bed and made my way to the living room. The television provided the only light, the volume low.

The news.

A helicopter shot of a house.

Stella’s house.

The pool in back. The fountain. I knew immediately.

“Is that—” Willy said.

“Yeah.”

I sat down on the edge of the couch, nodded at the television. “What’s going on?”

“Something really bad. Eighteen dead so far, and they’re still pulling out bodies. I just turned it on, but I heard something about guns and explosions, fire.”

“Eighteen?”

Stella.

Willy nodded. “Sounds like one of them might be a cop.”

Smoke rose from the west side of the house, thick black cords trailing out the windows and doors, a hole in the roof.

The camera cut from the aerial back to a reporter. “We’ve been told by Pittsburgh Police that we need to relocate. They are expanding the perimeter to include not only the house and surrounding property but the cul-de-sac, too. From what we can gather, this is to make room for additional emergency vehicles. I can see at least two firetrucks attempting to get through now, and between the narrow streets, press, and spectators, they’re having a tough time of it. If you are just joining us, this is Pete Lemire with KRWT CBS, and we’re standing outside a private residence located at 62 Milburn Court where at least eighteen people are known to be dead, including at least one police officer. Pittsburgh PD has not released any names at this time and said they will not until next of kin can be notified. Two of the dead appear to be security guards at the gatehouse behind me, victims of apparent gunshot wounds.”

Lemire looked off to his right, nodding at someone. “Again, we are being asked to relocate. I’ll hand it back to Christie in the newsroom. Christie?”

The camera switched back to the aerial. No voiceover.

“Milburn Court is only about a mile from where you got hit on your bike. A few blocks off Nobles in Burlington Hills. Really nice area. Old money,” Willy said.

Stella’s letter sat on the coffee table, unfolded, staring up at me, the word forget smudged but dry now.

Willy caught me looking at it. “That’s rough, bro.”

“Yeah.”

“The hidden message was clever. That girl loves to screw with you.”

I looked up at him. “What hidden message?”

“You didn’t see it?” he rolled his eyes. “You’re so damn lovesick. Of course you didn’t.” He ran his finger down the text. “Look at the last seven lines, the first letter of each line. It jumped right out at me, but I do a lot of word puzzles. Maybe that’s…”

He droned on, but I wasn’t listening. My eyes locked on those last seven lines in Stella’s careful script—

How are you to fill your days without