Forgive Me by Kateri Stanley (love letters to the dead txt) 📗

home. Where have they gone, Titan News offices? He didn’t want to go back there; the receptionist had seen his face and there were security cameras in the lobby.

“Maybe this is a sign you should leave them alone,” Anna whispered.

Anger vexed at his fists. He could’ve ripped the walls down. “This is a sign that I was too slow. I fucked up!”

He was silenced as she rushed him, her gentle fingers stroking his lips. “Please don’t do this, Isaiah. Let it go. Please.”

“I can’t,” he replied softly. “I wish I could. I’m sorry I can’t be the man you want me to be. I’ve come too far now. Done too much.”

He shivered as she kissed him, something sharp pulled at his chest. His fingers roamed up her back, stroking along her hips, gripping at her dress.

“Run away with me,” she whispered against his lips.

Isaiah pulled back from the kiss. “What did you say?”

Run away with me…

There was a screeching sound at the front of the house. Isaiah grabbed the machete that was hiding in his boiler suit. A car he didn't recognise parked up outside the house.

The highway raced past in washes of colour. Stripe glanced over her shoulder; Sofia was occupied, playing with her rattler, staring occasionally at the man driving her mother’s car. She peered out at the windows, blinking at the birds, pointing with her tiny finger. At least she’s enjoying herself. Somebody should.

Stripe pulled out her phone, dialling her mother's cell again. She kept receiving her whimsical voice informing the caller to leave a message after the beep. “Hi Mom. It’s me. I’m away with Sofia. I'm assuming you’re on your way to Barbara’s. Can you please ring me as soon as you get this? Love you.” Stripe hung up when she felt toasty fingers slide along her skin.

“Please try and relax, Stripe. I’m sure she's fine,” Isaac said gently.

She watched him, tension aching in her chest. “I’m sorry. It’s just, she practically lives on her phone with the number of friends she has and the groups she’s involved with. She’s like a teenager. She loves social media, she’s always going on about the latest Twitter and Instagram scandals. You’d think after everything she’s faced she’d want to cut herself off from all of it. There’s no reason why she wouldn't answer.”

“She’s probably driving to her friend’s place right now. Maybe she doesn’t have hands-free. She’ll ring you back. Just relax.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Beverley McLachlan wasn't always a bitch. She never had to look over her shoulder to see if anyone was following or sleep with a baseball bat by her bed - the summer of nineteen ninety-seven took all of the glory, the cause for her extra protective behaviour. The awful night had permanently tattooed her reputation. To some she was just the non-dimensional widow of Dr Peter McLachlan, one of the victims of the Night Scrawler - the murderer the feds failed to catch. Wearing the title felt like a burden that would never fade.

When a reporter leaked her name to the papers, people were coming up to her on the street, saying how sorry they were, interrupting her day when she was trying to get through the basic daily duties like food shopping. She’d receive letters from people asking for an interview about her ‘experiences.’

Experiences? Beverley wanted to say. What experiences? This isn’t a holiday or trying a brand new ride that’s just come out at a theme park. Losing your husband to a missing fugitive is not an experience. It’s a personal Hell.

It was awful when the police interviewed her as a possible suspect. She knew there were women who’d murdered their husbands from domestic violence to gold digging. She told them the truth about their marriage, it was a loving one and it had its bumps. No relationship was perfect. They wanted to know why she wasn’t at the house at the time of Peter’s death. Beverley was honest, she was fed up with the loneliness of her husband’s career and wanted to stay at her sister’s. Stripe was at the prom and she stayed the night after it finished, Beverley didn’t want her in the house on her own. She was glad of the decision or her one and only child would’ve been butchered too. The police cross referenced her statements, questioned her sister and Stripe and they let her free.

Beverley’s privacy had been completely stripped away. She nearly changed her name at one point, traversing back to Beverley Collins but Stripe talked her out of it after she listened to one of her passionate speeches. It reminded her too much of Peter. Her husband and daughter were so similar in personality and appearance. They both got excited about things, they both got angry over similar issues like events in the news, they both got determined, inspired for change.

She remembered when Sheila and Gerald had been killed. She’d sat glued to the television, her heart in her mouth. She couldn’t understand why anyone would hurt them. They were friendly people; she’d met them at a couple of parties, Sheila was confident and chatty, Gerald was quiet but not unpleasant. She hadn’t met Paul and Victoria but Peter spoke highly of their skills and personalities.

The only problem Beverley had with Peter’s job was that sometimes, she was left without a husband. She hated spending evenings and weekends by herself. He’d get calls in the middle of the night, disappear for days at a time. He even left during their vacation at the cabins, testing and processing blood samples was certainly a demanding role. Beverley was immensely pissed. Peter bought her a casket of wine and three barrels of chocolate truffles to bury the hatchet for that one. It wasn’t all the time but she’d get little niggling worries, was Peter really leaving for work? Was he fleeing to have a secret romance? Was it with Sheila, or Victoria?

She never got to ask him those questions in the end.

Stripe, Sofia, teaching and her