Mark

It's nearly midnight by the time two of the prison guards finally start digging the hole. I got to the prison over eight hours ago, and that’s how long it took me to convince the warden to dig it at all. Eight hours and $150,000. Cheap, actually. I’d have paid twice that without blinking. He's gonna have to wait until tomorrow morning for half of the money. He wanted to wait with the digging until then too, but I'm not having any of that.

The guards are digging too slow, sweat pouring down their faces, glistening in the torchlight. I'm just about to jump in and do it for them, when one of their shovels hits wood. The sound echoes in the nighttime silence like a gong.

"This is completely unnecessary," the warden is saying as they start hacking at the lid of the coffin to pry it open. "I showed you the paperwork. Reynard died in the riot. He is buried here."

He showed me some paperwork alright. But it was barely legible, and no pictures were attached.

"I'm confused as to what you hope to find here too," Pierre says to me in English. "I mean after three years, there's bound to be nothing but bones in there."

I ignore him, as I ignored the warden before him and walk to the edge of the grave. He's wrong. It takes eight to twelve years for a body to decompose when buried without a coffin. In one of my darker moments I checked, because I needed to know how Melanie was faring. She could still be whole in that grave I dug for her in the desert. I like to imagine she is. But buried in a coffin the decomposition process would take even longer than that.

The splintering of wood rips through the silence as one of the guards manages to pry the coffin open. The stench almost makes me retch. I shine my flashlight into the grave. The man lying in the coffin is black. It's not Reynard. The nightmare is real.

* * *

Nicole

"I'm just going in to get a latte and some breakfast," I tell the bodyguard. "I'll come right out. Honestly, you don't have to come with me."

We're standing in front of the coffee shop, and thankfully it's crowded. Should be easy to slip out the back without him noticing. Unless he comes in with me.

He's eyeing me with his eyebrows scrunched together over the bridge of his nose. "You're not to go places unattended."

"You left me in that spa for hours last night," I counter. "And that turned out alright."

I smile as I say it, hoping he'll realize I'm joking, and that he's just being paranoid. He studies me some more, his face very concentrated, like he's working hard to decide something.

"Fine," he finally says. "But get takeout."

"Can I get you something too?" I don't even know why I asked. Automatic politeness, I guess.

He shakes his head and opens the door for me. "I'm fine. Hurry back."

I keep an eye on him in the mirror that runs the length of the wall inside, as I mingle with the crowd at the counter. The bodyguard's watching me like a hawk, but eventually a group of tall businessmen get between him and me.

I rush to the backdoor and leave, not looking back. Judging by the way he was watching me, I don't think I have more than a few minutes before he comes into the shop looking for me, so I practically run to the park.

Martin waves to me when I reach it. He's talking to a guy in a green military jacket that has his back to me. My heart does a summersault in my chest when he turns, lodges in my throat as his pebble black eyes fix on me. I know him. He's the bum who stopped me on the way to the subway a couple of weeks ago, the guy piercing me with his look when I met Lucy in that diner a few days before she died. Sneaking off to meet him seems like a very bad idea all of a sudden.

But Martin is grinning at me as the guy scans the street behind me nervously. I can't back out now.

"This is Charles," Martin tells me.

The man gives me a curt nod, and then goes back to checking the surroundings. The way he's doing it has little panic in it, just a lot of resolve, the way a military man might do it. So I guess that part of his story could be true.

"I don't have a lot of time," I say to him. "What can you tell us?"

His eyes flash, the grin on his face mocking and self-assured. Most of his back teeth, both the top and bottom ones, are missing. The rest are a nasty shade of brown.

"First and foremost, I have to warn you that you truly do not have a lot of time left,” he says, fidgeting like he'd rather be somewhere else. “Not if you stay with Mark Cross."

He speaks with an accent, but his diction is perfect, and every single hair on my body is standing up, goose bumps erupting along my arms. I feel his warning in my stomach like I just swallowed rocks. But his eyes are shifting between me and whatever he's afraid is behind me, and his hands are shaking. I've come to associate that kind of behavior with liars over the years.

"I know Mark," I stutter, adding more firmly, "he's not dangerous, and he won't hurt me."

"You sure about that, Girl?" he asks, grinning again, something manic entering his eyes.

"Tell her about the wife," Martin urges him, wearing a very smug grin.

The man's face turns blank, even his eyes are no longer shining. "I saw Mark slide a knife across his wife's throat. Then he stood back and watched her bleed to death as she gurgled pleas to be saved. She was tied to a tree, he'd whipped her before he killed her. I ran to help her, because I thought it was just him there. But he wasn't alone. His friends caught me, hit me and left me in the desert to be arrested for her murder."

Nausea started rising in my stomach with each word he uttered. I'm trying to ignore the pictures his story painted, but I can't. And I want to throw up. This can’t be true, it can’t be. Mark wouldn’t do something like that. He wouldn’t.

"I was imprisoned for it," he continues. "But I escaped. Because I am innocent. And now everyone will know what Mark Cross does to women. I'll make sure of that."

He finishes by thumping himself on the chest with his fist twice, like some hero. I'm moments from puking, my whole body burning up even though it's freezing outside.

"Why should we believe any of this?" I manage to strangle out. "You were imprisoned for her murder. That would imply you committed it."

"The Cote d'Ivoire justice system leaves much to be desired. Including justice itself," he says, his eyes shimmering in anger again. If my accusation fazed him, it's not showing on his face. "But I have proof of my words."

He reaches into his coat like he's about to produce it, and I literally see the world start crumbling around me, my whole body feeling like it's slowly filling with liquid cement. What will he show me now? Something I can't dismiss? But I love Mark! I want to spend the rest of my life with him.

The man's face changes from a mocking smile to a panicked glare in a split second. Then he ducks behind Martin, jumps over one of the hedges, then over the low wall lining the park. He startles a group smoking there, knocks one to the ground, but just keeps running without looking back.

"There you are," a man says in a very relieved voice as he grasps my arm.

"I found her," he mumbles into his sleeve.

Martin's eyes are darting over the street down which Charles ran, but he's nowhere to be seen anymore. I think mine might be just as wide as his, if not more so. The main bodyguard, the one I left standing in front of the coffee shop is jogging towards us to.

He's angry, I can read it in the flashing of his pale eyes, but his voice is even as he says, "I thought I was clear in my instructions not to go anywhere without my knowledge."

"I ran into a colleague at the coffee shop," I stutter, pointing at Martin. "He wanted a cigarette, so I came with him out here while we discussed something."

The other guy is still holding me, and I try to shake off his grasp, but it's no use. My mind is stuck on waiting for that proof the source has, so all this isn't really registering. That's probably why I'm able to stay so calm and speak to them with such righteous indignation.

"Tell him to release me," I snap.

"There was another one with them," the guy holding me says. "He took off running as soon as he saw me."

They exchange a nervous glance.

"I'll take her back to the office," the main bodyguard tells the other one. "You go find the guy that ran away."

Martin's following the whole exchange with his mouth open. The bodyguard turns to him as soon as the other one leaves. "You mind giving us some privacy here?"

Martin nods, and walks away rather reluctantly. The bodyguard takes my arm and leads me from the park. I'd try and shake off his grip, but we've already caused enough of a scene, and everyone in the park is staring at us.

"Mr. Cross will hear of this, and you will not wander off again," the man says. "Is that clear?"

"Why do I have to be watched so closely?" I ask though I already know it’s futile.

"Because Mr. Cross ordered it. You must ask him as to why," the man says, lengthening his stride and practically dragging me along now.

"And it's not good to disobey him, is it?"

We’re standing at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. He turns and gazes into my eyes. "That is not advisable, no."

And there's more he wants to say, things he wants to explain, I can see it in his eyes. But he doesn't say anything more all the way back to my office building.

* * *

I'm shaking so hard my teeth are chattering when I sit down at my desk at the office. Cecilia, the colleague who occupies the desk next to me asks if I'm alright, but I just nod and turn away. It's a lie. I'm not alright. Everything that started crumbling while I was listening to that Charles guy is crashing down around me now, and I don't know if it'll ever get put together again.

It was all so perfect until this morning.

Well, no, not perfect, but getting there.

And now I can't stop shaking, can't catch my breath. I'm held prisoner by Mark's men, and the questions just keep getting bigger, deeper, more dire.

What if all Charles said is true? What if Mark is a cold blooded psycho killer? What if I am nothing more than his next victim?

A hand touches my shoulder and I shriek, literally flying from my chair. Sam lunges back, his glasses askew as he stares at me indignantly. "What's wrong, Nicole?"

Everything.

I want to shout that answer at the top of my lungs. And the thought finally sobers me.

"Nothing, I'm fine. You just startled me," I say, even managing a small smile.

Sam fixes his glasses, and wheels my chair back to my desk. It must've hit him when I lunged up. "Did you meet with the source?"

I nod. "But he didn't give me anything pertinent before he left."

I'll keep the reason why he ran off to myself. It's better that way.

"How's the rest of the story coming along?"

I shrug, casting a glance at my closed laptop. "Slowly."

But that's because I haven't even looked into it since I paraphrased that email from Lucy.

"I'm gonna do more research today," I say, though I think it's more for my benefit than Sam's. I need answers. Concrete, hard facts, because what I heard today is not something I can just ignore, no matter how badly I want to.

"Let me know if you need anything from me," Sam says, then shuffles back to his office after I assure him I'll keep him in the loop.

What I really want to do is go back out and find Charles, get that proof from him. But that's not an option. Martin's not back yet either.

I grab my phone and go out into the hall, dialing his number. He picks up with an annoyed, "Yes," on the third ring.

"Where are you?" I blurt out.

"Looking for Charles, that's where. And thank you for that," he snarls. "I'm freezing my ass off out here, and it's all because of you. I just hope he comes back."

"I didn't know they were gonna come chase him away," I say.

"Well, I just hope that what you heard today will make you reconsider how safe you are under the protection of Cross' men." His voice is oozing with sarcasm, and I'd be offended, if I weren't considering the very same thing.

"Set up another meeting when you find him," I say rather sheepishly. "I want to see his proof."

"I bet you do," he says and hangs up without even saying goodbye.

I'm still shivering, but it's getting better. This is no time to fall apart.

I dial Mark's number, fully intent on getting answers about his wife from him. And the reason why I need to be under 24-hour surveillance. But it just rings and rings, until his voicemail finally gets it. I can practically feel him staring at his phone wherever he is, deciding not to pick up. It makes me mad. But maybe it's for the best that he's not picking up. This conversation is best had in private. And maybe it's time I got a little angry at him.

So I rush back to my desk and start up my computer, intent on uncovering everything I possibly can about his past. Starting with his wife.

The anger helps keep all the pain at bay, as I click on every single photo of her I can find. Most of them were posted by her sister on social media, accompanied by heartfelt pleas for any information as to her whereabouts. Mark's hardly mentioned. Except beside that one photo of them together under which her sister is begging for any info on who he is. I wish I didn't understand the messages, but French was actually one of my best subjects in high school. And I speak it fluently, since spending that semester in Paris in my sophomore year of college.

Should I write to her? Tell her I know the guy in the photo, give her Mark's number?

I compose the message, but delete it right after. Yet the more I learn of Melanie, the less I want to protect Mark. He still hasn't called me back. I don't think he will.

From what I can gather, his wife's family was against her working at that orphanage in Africa. She dropped out of university to do it, and they fell out. Which explains why they don't even know Mark. She disappeared in Cote d'Ivoire about six years ago, all trace of her gone. The orphanage thought she went back home. The family thought she was still in Africa. A search for her was conducted, but much too late, months after she actually disappeared it seems.

I have less luck trying to find out more about Mark during that time. I do find the photo of him Lucy sent me, but the accompanying article is gone, deleted. It's the last trace of him I can find anywhere, until he started working for a bank in LA, closing some very prominent deals. And the only thing that my research into this part of his life reveals is that he's worth billions, and that he started out with a very hefty sum before he closed any of those lucrative deals. No one knows where the money came from, and the question had been raised in at least twenty articles about him, but it's still a mystery.

"Find anything good?" Martin asks from behind my back, making me jump again.

I close the lid of my laptop with a snap, hoping I didn't break anything. "Not much at all. Did you find that guy?"

It's dark outside, and I have no idea where the time went. The office is deserted, though Sam's still typing frantically in his office.

Martin shakes his head and sits down on the edge of my desk. "No, but I hope he shows up tomorrow. Otherwise, I don't know what we'll do."

I roll away from the desk and pick up my bag off the floor, start packing up. "I think he’ll be back."

"Yeah, what makes you so sure?" Martin snaps. Blisters have formed on his cheeks from the cold. And if he weren't such a smug asshole, I might even feel sorry for him.

"Because he's tried to talk to me on at least one other occasion," I say, fighting down the feeling of fear the memory brings. "He stopped me on the way to the subway a few weeks ago, muttering something about me being in danger."

The words taste sour as they leave my mouth. Am I really in danger? I wish Mark would call me back.

"Did he say anything concrete?" Martin snaps.

I pack up my computer and stand up. "Nope. Just rambled."

"Where are you going?"

"Home. I need to think." And that is exactly where I'm going. Back to my little apartment. Even though everything I own is packed up in suitcases at Mark's hotel room.

* * *

"No, absolutely not," the bodyguard tells me when I reveal my plan to spend the night at my apartment.

I just stare at him with my mouth open, tears threatening to erupt at any second.

"I can't protect you there," he explains more softly. "I'd need at least three more men to do it, and I don't have them."

My head's spinning, the ground beneath my feet wobbling, my thoughts racing in circles, everything such a jumbled mess I have no idea how to reply.

"Mr. Cross will be back soon," the guy tells me as he holds the car door open for me. "Then he'll explain everything."

"Yeah, fat chance," I mumble as I climb into the car, but either he didn't hear or he's pretending not to have.

I could run. Go back to the office, tell Sam everything, call the cops. But despite everything I heard today I do still trust Mark, and I won't break that trust without concrete proof. His men trust him too, and I sense no ill will towards me from any of them. That's got to mean something too, right?

* * *

Mark

Sweat's pouring down my back and my face hurts from smiling for the last three hours. The orphans are making an impossible racket, have been since we got here. I want to get on with my search for Reynard. But PR is important, or so my head advisor keeps telling me. His shirt is soaked with sweat, sticking to him in the nastiest way possible, and if I have to smile for the fucking camera one more time, I might just fire him on the spot.

The headmistress is gliding towards me, a wide smile on her lips. She’s a tall, graceful woman, who’d look more at home on a runway, or some magazine cover, even though she’s getting on in the years.

"It is wonderful that you’re doing this for the children. Melanie would be so happy," she says, and takes my hand in both of hers. "Tell me, is there any news on her whereabouts?"

My smile slips at her question. I wish I could deliver this lie lightly, but that's a fool's idea. I'll never be able to. Nicole called me at least ten times yesterday. I didn't pick up. Because the time has come for her to know everything, and I'm still not sure I can tell her. But I do know I won't be doing it over the phone.

I shake my head. "No. Nothing."

It's the best I can do, and the headmistress seems to interpret my lack of words as grief, because she smiles at me sadly and squeezes my hands reassuringly.

“Her sister hasn’t called in awhile,” the headmistress tells me. “Perhaps the family is starting to forget.”

Melanie’s sister hasn’t called me in over two years either, but I don’t think it’s because she’s gotten over it. She was obsessed with finding Melanie, and used to call me daily after she tracked me down about three years after Melanie died, reopened every wound until I had to stop taking her calls or go insane.

"The children will have a hard time getting to sleep tonight," she says, looking at the orphans and smiling serenely.

They're playing with the toys my people brought for them. I swear I took a picture with every kid and their new toy since I got here this morning, and there are over two hundred. I should be kinder, and I'm trying to be, but I haven't slept in more than two days and I'm not sure I will any time soon.

My work phone starts vibrating in my pocket, and I snatch my hand out of the headmistress' grasp. She sighs in shock, stares at me with wide eyes, but I don't have a single smile left in me, not even an apologetic one. It’s Thompson calling, my head of security, and the one I left in charge of Nicole's safety. All those calls from her suddenly take on a whole new, terrifying meaning. She could be in trouble. And I just ignored her. I feel like I've swallowed cement.

"All is well, Sir," Thompson says, and I actually groan in relief. "But there was an incident yesterday."

I look at the headmistress, point at the phone and she nods, walks away.

"What kind of incident?"

"Ms. West slipped away for a few minutes," Thompson says. And if it was anyone else telling me this, I'd be yelling at them so hard right now. But I trust him completely, above all for his honesty like the kind he's exhibiting right now.

"Where did she go?" I ask instead.

"To meet some colleague of hers in a park. But there might have been someone else with them. He ran when he saw us approaching."

"What did he look like?" I'm waving Pierre over, but he's not noticing since he's playing with one of the toy cars the kids got like he's fucking ten years old himself.

"Didn't get a good look at him, I'm sorry."

"Just don't let her out of your sight again," I bark. "I still need a few days here."

"If I may say something, Sir," he mutters, all formal like.

"What?"

"She's starting to ask a lot of questions," he says. "Even wanted to go back to her own apartment tonight. I think you should tell her something, put her mind at ease."

"Duly noted," I snap and hang up. And I want to pretend Nicole wanting to go back to her place last night didn't feel like a kick to the stomach, but it's hard. I'm on the verge of flying home tonight though. Would if the man I'm meeting tomorrow morning wasn't someone who most likely made the travel arrangements for Reynard to leave the country, probably gave him a passport in a name he might still be using.

But how important is that, if he's already in New York City, stalking Nicole?

It's not even six AM there, and I don't want to wake her, but maybe this conversation can't wait.

* * *

Nicole

"Mark?" I ask into the phone, my eyesight fuzzy, but I'm sure I read his name off the screen right. Or maybe I'm still dreaming.

"Nicole, did I wake you?" he asks, softly like he truly cares.

"Yes, but that's OK," I say and sit up, rubbing my eyes. "Mark, we need to talk."

"I know."

His answer renders me speechless, since I'd expected something along the lines of a no, only perhaps worded a little nicer.

"I need to know why I'm practically your prisoner here, for starters," I add, once it becomes clear the two-word agreement is actually all I'm going to get from him. I regret my harsh tone as soon as the words are out of my mouth. I should be telling him I miss him, that I want him to come home.

"Just go with it, can't you?" he snaps. "It's for your own good, I swear."

"So that what happened to Lucy doesn't happen to me?" I'm wide awake now, and I want answers. I want him to say he loves and misses me, and is worried about me. But I also want to know why.

"Yes," he says like it’s not the most terrifying thing I’ve ever heard. "So don't run away from the guards again."

"Who are you protecting me from? If you know something about Lucy's death you have to go to the police, Mark. It's the right thing to do." I'm rambling now, all my fears and doubts about him rising to the surface again. They faded as soon as I entered the hotel room last night, smelled him all around me, and remembered the nights I fell asleep in his arms, safe and happy. But I still hardly got any sleep.

"I’ll handle it." His voice is distant again.

"What happened to your wife, Mark?"

The line goes silent save for the faint humming of static. I don't hear him breathing anymore, like he's already hung up.

"It's not a conversation to have over the phone." His tone is cold and commanding, the kind that brooks no argument. But I'm not giving in that easily today.

"Why can't you just tell me?"

"I'm coming home tomorrow," he says instead of answering my question. "We'll talk when I get back."

Then he hangs up for real.

I'm on the verge of tears. I was also on the verge of telling him all about what that bum told me yesterday. And if Mark was a little more forthcoming right now, I would have. But as it is, doubt is choking me. Everything that man told me could be true. All of Lucy's and Martin's insinuations could be a real threat. Because I am practically Mark's prisoner, and he's not telling me a damn thing to make me think otherwise. So I have to find out what he's not telling me by some other means, because as much as I want to trust him, I'll never be able to unless I get the facts for myself.

I knew that all along, ever since Lucy first came to me with her accusations. All this wanting to get answers from him directly has just been me determined to remain blind to that fact. Love will mess with your mind, and it's still messing with mine, but at least I can admit that now. I want to trust Mark, but it's time I took matters firmly into my own hands.

* * *

It started snowing outside right after Mark hung up on me, and it's getting worse by the hour. And snow means ice. That thought keeps looping around my brain, because ice is the safe word Mark gave me to use when things go too far, get out of hand. It's silly and terrifying at the same time. Because I might have to use it soon. To stop things between us forever.

I've been at the office since seven AM, researching Mark's past, getting stuck on looking at pictures upon pictures of his dead wife again. I've also been trying to find out more about Lucy's murder, but the police are not releasing much evidence about that.

"That cagey bastard!" Martin suddenly yells, startling me and everyone else at the office. I look at him as annoyed muttering breaks out.

He picks up his laptop and waves for me to follow him into the conference room, where he promptly shuts the doors and closes the blinds. I wouldn't be so obvious in trying to hide something. Now the others will just know it's worth their time to find out what we're working on.

"What is it?" I ask, the lack of sleep and my general confusion as to what I should do making my voice flat.

Martin turns the laptop toward me and presses play on a video. In it, Mark’s surrounded by countless little African children. He's playing with them, smiling and laughing, like he's having the time of his life. It's a very spontaneous video, like some amateur just filmed it for their own collection, but decided to upload it because it's so sweet. And just seeing his face does a lot to soften my resolve to find out more about him behind his back, makes me feel guilty for not trusting him. He looks so carefree in the video, so happy, exactly the way I want him to be all the time.

"What am I looking at?" I finally ask, since I have no idea why this video upset Martin so much.

"The video’s from this morning, and it’s already all over the internet," he says, spittle flying from his mouth and landing on the screen. "Cross is at some African orphanage that he just donated a shitload of money, toys and other things to. It's going viral, and damn near every news site is picking it up, gushing about what a philanthropist he is. He must have some genius Internet Marketers working for him, that’s for sure."

"He's just doing something nice for the poor," I say. "I think it's great."

But why wouldn't he tell me this was the reason he went to Africa? Why keep a nice thing like that a secret from me?

"Yeah, I thought you would," Martin snarls. "But have you noticed the name of the orphanage?"

He points to the video description, and my heart stops. It's the orphanage his wife worked at. I guess I have my answer why he didn't tell me.

"Guilt, I'm thinking," Martin muses. "They're reporting he donated $2 Million to it this year. That's on top of the millions he's already given them in the past."

What's this world coming to? Someone does something for the less fortunate, and it's immediately perceived as negative. But would I think any differently if it weren’t Mark? Or if my entire chest wasn't full of exploding bubbles of love and happiness?

But it is the orphanage his wife worked at. And if nothing else, this proves she is still very much a part of his life. I don't want to be jealous, but I am.

"How did Lucy die?" I ask Martin. "Do you know? I can't find any information."

Martin closes his laptop and tucks it beneath his arm. "Me neither. They're keeping a very tight lid on her case. Almost like someone's paying them to keep quiet."

He grins at me as he says it, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "It's time to stop being so naive, Nicole. Whatever’s in Cross' past isn't pretty."

I am starting to realize that might be the case. And it's paralyzing me with a grief the like of which I've never felt before.

"And the source? Have you found him yet?" I choke out, hoping Martin isn't seeing my distress. But from the smug grin he's still wearing, I know he is.

"No, not yet," he says. "Let's hope he turns up. But in the meantime, it's time to do some real digging. I think I’ll go down to the police station and mention Lucy was working on the Cross story, offer to help in exchange for some exclusive information."

He's already at the door, and I'm still just staring at the wooden surface of the table, trying to decide what to do. I whip around as he says it, my hip colliding with the edge of the table, but it's a mere drop into the pool of pain I’m already in.

"You can't," I mutter then fall silent, since I have absolutely nothing to back it up with. You can't because I love him, just wouldn't cut it right now.

He raises one eyebrow at me, his lips curling up to the left as he approaches me again. "I can't? It's what we should've done from the start."

"They went through her desk," I interject. "I'm sure they found something linking her to Mark there. If they're not pursuing it, they must have their reasons."

I'm grasping at straws. But at this point it's all about what I believe, and how much I actually trust Mark. Yet the doubts in my mind are quickly gathering black clouds ready to overshadow all else.

"They didn't find anything. I removed everything before they came here," he says, with not even a hint of remorse in his voice. "And her laptop went missing from her house the night she died."

"You went there to check too?" I ask, interrupting him.

"Of course not," he barks. "The detective told me."

I'm not sure whether I believe him or not, mostly because there's little I'd put past him.

"Don't worry, Nicole. Everything will work out," he says and slides his hand down my arm. He's standing so close I can smell his breath. And if it weren't for the queasiness his touch, his very presence wakes in me, I might actually think he cares.

"I'm going to the police station, but after that, I think we should go with what we have," he says, again walking toward the door. "With this orphanage stuff all over the net it's the perfect time to strike. Don't you agree?"

He glares at me for a few moments like he's waiting for a reply, then leaves. I'm frozen to the spot, unable to move, hardly able to think. Because the only thing shooting through my brain is that, yes, this is the perfect time to break this story. With all the viral coverage of the orphanage, my name on an article about how Mark might have killed his wife and is now atoning for it by donating money to the place she used to work at, would give me the kind of exposure I've only dreamed about until now.

But I can't do that. Not without hearing his side of the story first.

Yet all I think Mark and me have could just be an illusion. My whole body is constricting, screaming that it isn't so. But it very well could be. Why else is he keeping all these secrets?

* * *

Martin's gone when I finally get it together and exit the conference room. The urge to call him, plead with him not to go to the police is as dire as it is stupid. Of course they should be told all that is pertinent to the case. There's nothing I can say to stop him going, and nothing I should.

An envelope is lying over the keyboard of my laptop. It has no stamp, my name and address written on it by hand.

"Did you see who brought this?" I ask Cecilia, whose desk is right next to mine.

She blinks up at me, her eyes going from mine to the letter and back. "The post guy brought it while you were talking to Martin. Didn't even bother asking where you were, just left it there. I thought that was odd."

The envelope is all crumpled up and dirty, like someone with filthy hands handled it. The ink in which my name is written is smudged in places.

"Open it. Then you'll know who it's from," Cecilia urges, sounding like my mom might, especially since she's about twenty years older than me.

"Yeah, I will," I tell her, as though it's any of her business what I do.

I have a fair idea who the letter is from, and I have a very real reluctance to open it. My gut's telling me nothing will ever be the same again after I do.

But nothing is already ever gonna be the same, and opening this letter won't change a damn thing.

So I stuff it into my pocket and head to the restroom. I don't want anyone reading over my shoulder, and I definitely don't want anyone watching my reaction as I see what's inside. The envelope is thin, so there's little chance it contains the proof of Mark's guilt, but I can't be sure.

My breath's hitching in my throat as I lock the stall behind me and lean against the door. I don't think I've been this nervous about opening a piece of correspondence since getting my college acceptance letters. But I got into Columbia University that time, my top choice. So maybe this letter isn't so bad either.

My hands are shaking as I tear open the envelope. But all it contains is a hastily scribbled note on the back of a receipt.

Meet me at the bar this receipt is from at seven, if you want the proof. Come alone. - Charles

I flip the paper over automatically. The bar is one of those dark English pub style places that I've passed a few times on my way to and from work, but never went in. I don't think there's any way the bodyguard will let me go in there on my own. And even without Charles’ demand, I don’t want the guards to follow me there, since Mark shouldn't know about me meeting this guy.

I could call Martin and send him. But I don't want him to have anything incriminating on Mark, at least not until I've seen it first. But how the hell will I get rid of the guards?

A couple of hours later, I still have no idea how to achieve it. I've just been sitting at my computer, staring at the screen not able to concentrate on anything. Martin called, informed me that he couldn't get in touch with the detectives working on Lucy's case, but will try again tomorrow. He also rambled on and on about how he thinks Mark is paying someone off to stall the investigation. When I asked how he can be sure of that, he just laughed and mocked me some more for being in love with him, but offered no proof. He also mention he was going to look for Charles some more. I didn't tell him about the note.

Nothing might come of that meeting anyway. Unless I figure out how to get out of the building without the bodyguards knowing.

Beside me, Cecilia starts packing up.

"It's still snowing like crazy," she complains loudly, pointing at the window. "And I have to get all the way to Jersey. I hope I don't get stuck on the Turnpike somewhere."

"Your car's downstairs in the garage, right?" I exclaim, way too much excitement in my voice.

She looks at me like she thinks I lost my mind. "Yeah. So, at least I won't have to clear snow off it."

But that's not what I was thinking.

"Do you think you could give me a lift?" I ask, getting up too.

There's a slim chance that the guards won't notice me leaving that way, though I'm sure they're watching all the exits of the building. But maybe with the snow coming down as hard as it is, and me being in a strange car, they might not notice me.

"Sure," Cecilia says. "Where to, though? I'm going up to the west side…"

"That works," I say, interrupting her. "I said I'd meet a friend up in West Village, but I sure as hell don't want to walk there in this. Or take a bunch of buses."

"OK, but we have to leave now, before this turns into a real blizzard." It's a little late for that, but I don't say that. Instead I pack up hastily and am putting on my coat before she's even done shutting down her computer.

I wrap my scarf over my hair while we're waiting for the elevator, then place the hood of my coat over the whole thing. It's big enough to hide my face so this plan might just work.

"The car is in the garage, Nicole," Cecilia says wryly.

"I know," I say and smile. "But it's snowing like crazy outside."

Crazy is what I must look like, being all bundled up like this for a car ride. But she doesn't say anything more and neither do I. My heart's thumping worse and worse, and I'm pretty sure Cecilia can hear it buy the time we reach the car.

But what's the worst that can happen? I'm sure Mark's men won't just drag me out of the car, if they see me.

Still, I'm shaking with nerves by the time I'm sitting in the passenger seat, and she's pulling out of her space.

"So, who was the letter from?" she asks as we inch toward the exit. There's a line of cars in front of us and a line behind us, which means we'll be stuck on the sidewalk waiting for our turn to drive onto the street. Not great odds for remaining hidden.

"Oh, it was nothing. Just something for a story I'm working on." I have the strongest urge to tell her exactly where I'm going and who I'm meeting, since maybe someone should know. I don't though, because that would be idiotic.

"That hush-hush thing you and Martin are working on?" Cecilia persists. We're almost at the exit ramp. This is the moment of truth. "The one Lucy was working on before she died?"

My surprised gasp ruins any hope of pretending I have no idea what she's talking about. How is it even possible that everyone knows everything about what the others are working on at my office?

"Similar," I decide to lie anyway. "But it's not the same story."

"It’s bout that banker Mark Cross, right?" she asks, and her voice is no longer just conversational, it's business like, as though she's interviewing me.

"In part," I say evasively and pretend to look for something in my bag because we're almost on the sidewalk.

But I was worried for nothing. It's snowing so hard outside that I can hardly see more than a few feet from the car. I don't notice any of the men watching over me, and I don't think there's any way they can see me. I actually sigh in relief as she pulls out onto the street, going in the opposite direction from the main entrance.

She gives me a strange look at that, but doesn't ask any more questions. I still don't fully relax until she drops me off on a dark corner in West Village.

Now I just have to get back downtown, but that’s fine, since I have more than an hour before I have to meet Charles.

* * *

Mark

Charles Jones. That's the name under which Reynard left Africa. At least I got that much out of this trip. It's something. A name can be traced. But how far? I'll worry about that when I get back to New York. I already told Thompson to start the search, and I'll finish it when I get back.

Pierre's sitting across from me on the jet, cradling his broken arm. I think he cracked the cast beating the name out of the guy who got the papers for Reynard, but he refused a trip to the hospital before we left, claiming he was fine. My own knuckles are swollen and throbbing painfully. The large gash from the punch that broke the man's front teeth will likely fester. But a few bruises and scratches is the last thing I'm worried about right now.

We're about to take off. Nicole will be asleep when we land. And maybe I'll wake her, or I might just watch her sleep. Because she'll want answers when I get back, and I’ll give them to her. Which could very well mean she'll never want to wake up next to me again. I should've told her more on the phone, told her I loved her. But she was so distant, so demanding, like she was already saying goodbye, and it pissed me off.

I wish I could sleep.

If Nicole was here with me I would be able to.

The engines roar to life, the force of the take off pushes me back into my seat, and then we're airborne. I get up and walk to the bedroom as soon as we reach cruising altitude. I need to lie down. I haven't slept in more than three days, except for the once or twice I might have passed out in the car on the way to somewhere.

The next time I take this plane out will be to take Nicole to a nice place. A tropical island maybe, or wherever she wants to go.

I strip and get into bed, but I already know I won't sleep. Thoughts are racing through my brain, going in circles, Reynard's ugly face the center of it all. How can I bring all that back to Nicole? Will she ever understand?

If she was here I could sleep. I know that for a fact, because when I'm with her everything else just fades.

I will wake her when I get back. Touch her and kiss her before she has a chance to ask any of her questions.

Maybe I’ll tie her to the bed. But I'll take her nice and slow the way she likes it. She enjoys the other way too, I know she does, but the way she opens when I’m gentle with her is beyond anything I've ever experienced with a woman. Like a flower opening its petals in the morning sun. My cock is rock hard just thinking about her, the way her hips rock when she walks, naturally seductive, because that’s how she is, not a single fake thing about her.

Maybe I won't tie her up at all, but let her touch me and kiss me like she's been wanting to, forget all my problems in the soft touch of her hands and her lips. I stroke my cock, imagining her lips wrapped around it, her eyes wide yet dreamy as she struggles to take all of it in her mouth. I nearly lose it as my mind shifts to her velvet soft pussy, the way she opens, moans and writhes as I slide my cock in, her desire to pull away yet remain still both equally strong and a palpable thing. The willingness with which she gives herself to me always drives me over the edge too soon, and I can't hold back any longer now just from imagining it, lose it in a strong orgasm of the kind only she can give me.

Yes, I will wake her when I get back. And I will let her hold me. Because once I kill Reynard there will be none of the old left. I'll be free to let Nicole's light lead me back after that.

Peace comes once that realization dawns, because if I don't concentrate on anything else, I can already feel her arms around me, her body pressed into mine, as she lulls me to sleep with her soft even breaths.

"There's a call for you. Get up!" Pierre yells at me. I feel like I've only slept a few seconds, but it must've been longer, because I feel rested.

"You deal with it," I say and roll over, trying to get back to that warm, pleasant spot next to Nicole.

"Would I wake you if I could deal with it?" Pierre snaps. "It's urgent."

I glare at him and snatch the phone from his outstretched hand. One of these days I wish Pierre would learn some humility. But that's a fool's wish.

"This better be fucking important," I bark into the phone.

"We have a problem, Sir," Thompson informs me. "Ms. West is gone."

I'm wide awake now, adrenaline pumping. "Gone how?"

"She never came down from her office. It's nine PM and she's not there anymore, I checked myself. I don't know how this has happened, we were watching all the exits," Thompson explains, each word making my heart race faster.

"Find her!" I'm standing and I don't remember getting up.

"We are trying."

"Do it!" Standing's not doing any good, because I'm trapped in this plane and Nicole could be anywhere. She could be dead.

"How long before we land?" I ask Pierre. He checks his watch, screws his eyes up as he calculates like I need his fucking theatrics right now.

"Eight hours, give or take," he finally says.

"Fucking shit!" I toss the phone hard against the floor, hear it shatter. But I don't care. Pierre’s asking me something, but it’s not registering. I'm searching my pants for the other phone, the one Nicole has the number to. But the call goes straight to voicemail. I haven’t felt this powerless since the night I watched Reynard slitting my wife's throat open.

* * *

Nicole

"You made it," Charles says to me as I approach him at one of the back tables in the bar. "And you were not followed."

"I wasn't," I answer, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.

I'm soaking wet from the snow, and freezing. The bar is dark and virtually deserted, and the bartender didn't even look up at me as I entered. He's still just standing there behind the counter, wiping a glass like it's the most important thing he has to do.

"Sit, we have much to discuss," Charles says and pulls a chair out for me without getting up. His black eyes are gleaming orange from the overhead lights, and he no longer seems like the shifty bum he was at the park yesterday. Or the deranged one who stopped me on the way to the subway a few weeks ago.

"You said you had proof," I say and sit down, without even unbuttoning my coat. I want to leave again as soon as I can.

"Oh, yes, I have proof. But maybe you need a drink first, eh?" he says and calls to the bartender, who looks up at us sharply.

"A whiskey for the lady!" Charles shouts.

What's with these men all ordering for me! My mouth's already open to argue the point, but I close it again, since there's no sane reason why I should. And I could use a strong drink.

"So tell me your story," I say instead. "How come you know so much about Mark?"

And why should I believe you? But I don't ask it. I'll decide that on my own.

"Mark was one of my soldiers in Africa," he says. "I was his commanding officer for four years. There’s little I don’t know about him."

"And you claim he killed his wife? How can you know?" I snap, interrupting because I need him to get to the point.

He grins at me and reaches under the table just as my whiskey arrives. I ignore the waiter and the drink, my eyes focused on the plastic bag Charles produces, the brown folder he pulls out of it.

"You might want to have some of that drink before you see this," he says, smiling at me. "It is rather disturbing."

But his face is gleeful as he tells me this, and my heart's starting to race again. Am I talking to a psychopath? I read they cannot match facial expressions to emotions very well, like, for example, smiling over something they know is disturbing.

He seems to be waiting for me to take that drink, so I do. The folder contains a stack of large photographs, but he's holding them so I can only see the edges. It looks like a nighttime plain of some sort, the desert maybe.

"Show me," I urge, taking another sip of my whiskey for good measure.

He flips the photo over and slides it towards me. In it, a man is digging a deep hole in the ground, a woman lying beside him. I almost scream. Because the man is Mark, and the woman's not wearing a dark shirt, that's blood covering her naked chest.

"This one shows Mark burying his wife," Charles says softly, like he's just showing me cute snapshots of his family. "Here's another one."

The second picture shows Mark placing the woman into the grave. Other men are in this photo too, some in uniform and carrying machine guns.

"Do you believe me now?" Charles asks.

I'm having a hard time swallowing, let alone speaking. The next photo he shows me is of Mark tossing dirt over the dead woman. But, for some reason, it's not horror I'm feeling looking at these photos, but rather a profound, deep sadness. And it’s not just mine. An anguished expression is covering Mark's face in every one of the images. This is a funeral. It's not merely the disposal of a body.

"You love him don't you?" Charles asks. I nod without thinking. And if I was there with Mark in those pictures, I'd comfort him.

"So did she," Charles tells me. "And he loved her."

I don't understand this change of direction he's taking. He almost sounds whimsical as he says it. The room's getting fuzzy, his face blurry as I look up at him. My heart's racing, but I hardly feel it. These pictures, they prove nothing. I love Mark, and I will be there for him, no matter what.

"And that's why I killed her." Charles' words pierce me like a knife, but the pain vanishes in a suffocating softness that’s fast enveloping me. "Just like I will kill you."

I try to stand, but my legs are jelly, the ground not solid under my feet. And it’s not just from my nerves. He must have put something in my drink.

"Why?" I manage to choke out. My mouth feels like I'm chewing on cotton balls.

"Because Mark took something from me, and he never gave it back," Charles snaps. "And I'll keep taking things from him until he does."

He waves someone over and the next thing I know, strong hands grip my arms, and I'm being carried outside. I try to scream, but no sound comes out. I doubt anyone would even hear me through the impenetrable curtain of snow falling outside.

Charles leans in until his lips are almost touching my cheek. "Don't worry, your colleague will get all this proof, along with the pictures of your dead body. Then he'll print the story that will destroy Mark once and for all. Though I think your murder will achieve that all on its own."

I try to scream again, my throat burning from the effort, but only a whimper comes out. What have I done? If only I'd followed Mark's directions, trusted him like I knew in my heart I should, I'd be safe now.

They toss me into the back of a van, my head bouncing off the metal wall before everything goes black.