Three Breaths (The Game of Life Novella Series Book 3) Page 7

  “Reid, are you listening?”

  “Hmm.” Is how I respond, wrapped up in thought.

  “Focus on what is happening now. You’re going live on television. Pleading for the safe return of Morgan.”

  “I know,” I snap annoyed.

  “Okay.”

  “How did he know?” I say quietly.

  “Know what? Who?”

  “The call. How did Morgan's abductor know I’d left the house? Is it—”

  “We’ve searched every room since, and there are no bugs to be found. We’re not sure, but we will find out.”

  “Gleaton said—"

  “Reid, we can discuss this later.”

  Maloney stands at the entrance to Morgan’s library. “Gregory Stiles is here. I just saw him step out of a car. Would you like me to usher him into the lounge area?”

  West swivels on his heel. “No. We’ll meet him at the door and offer introductions.” West nods, in a way that indicates Maloney should disappear, and he does.

  “You can do this.” West pats my upper arm.

  I can do this.

  Walking beside West makes me feel like a soldier marching in line. I stop when he does, and shift my position until we are stilled, shoulder to shoulder as West opens the door and we stand in the doorway. Gregory has short blond hair. Wide shoulders. A groomed light stubble covers his chin as he closes in. He smiles. It’s only a half-hearted smile, but it’s directed at me.

  “Detective West.” Gregory jumps up the steps to the veranda. His arm stretches out as he takes a long stride towards us. “Wish we were meeting again under more pleasant circumstances.” His fingers part, his hand still awaits that of West’s, who finally obliges, taking his offer of a handshake.

  “It’s good to see you, Greg. And I agree, we need to stop meeting in circumstances like these.” Professionalism at its finest. They release their grip and put distance between each other.

  “The boys are set. I’m ready when you are.” Greg’s posture is strong. His tone is controlled.

  “Now is fine,” West says.

  “Good. Mr Banks.” He turns his attention to me. “I’m Gregory Stiles, a reporter from Channel Sixty-One. I’m so sorry to hear about your wife. We will do all we can to help bring her home.” His arm outstretches again, this time an invitation to me. I nod as his firm grip squeezes against my knuckles.

  “I know who you are. I’ve seen you on the television,” I mumble.

  “Of course.” And there’s that half-hearted smile again.

  “I also saw you on my lawn with the searchers.” I cock my eyebrows in question.

  “Yes.” Greg’s voice is not as deep as I thought it would be for a man of his size. “It’s important to be connected with stories you report on.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say. Greg seems genuinely concerned and caring.

  I turn and stride towards the living area and become surprised by the hand now resting on my upper back, guiding me. There’s a soothing comfort to Greg’s touch, and the way he strides half a step behind me, offering me the lead. This gives me a sense of control, something I’ve not felt over the last couple of days.

  “Reid, just remember to breathe and take your time. We have all the time in the world, and I can only imagine you will need to pace yourself so you can say what it is you want. Please do not cuss; we won’t be able to censor it while the broadcast is live. Just be genuine, and I’ll do the rest. I will keep my involvement to a minimum. It’s your floor. Let your heart speak.”

  “Okay.” It’s a soft deliverance.

  It’s mid-morning, and I’m sitting on the couch beside Kylee, who is next to Ronald, in our loungeroom. When did they arrive?

  It’s all I think as I look away from the bright lights in front of me, the lights emitting so much heat I can feel sweat beads forming at my hairline. Maybe this jacket wasn’t such a good idea. West said it was. The feeling of suffocation is mixing with the nerves circling in my stomach. Maybe I can’t do this. I puff out my cheeks, slide my hand up and down my jeans leg. What am I going to say?

  Greg takes a seat in a chair placed across from me just as West passes beside him and then sits on the opposite side of me on the couch. We’re packed in like a can of sardines, and this causes my temperature to rise further. I’m suffocating even more.

  When I glance to my left, I see an older man, early to mid-sixties, with a grey beard, wearing a Broncos baseball cap. He’s standing just off to the side of a large camera on a stand. I instantly think about how much this sight would piss Morgan off. Morgan loathes hat-wearing inside buildings; it's something she has never allowed. Should I ask him to remove it?

  “Reid.” Greg’s tone is soft, controlled, yet calm when he speaks my name. I shift my attention to him. “Two minutes and we’ll be live. Do you need anything?”

  I do. To get the fuck off this couch. But I say nothing and shake my head.

  The cameraman standing behind Greg is short and stocky. He’d be at least the same height as Morgan. He’s so young, maybe all of eighteen, and as his head disappears behind another large camera on a stand, I want nothing more than to yell, “GET OUT! Everyone get out of my house.” I can’t breathe.

  “He’s not been mic’d.” Gregory’s statement is one of frustration, yet he doesn’t say it with even a hint of disappointment. He’s a professional, and it’s obvious he’s been doing this job for a long time.

  “Sorry, Greg.” The bearded baseball-hat-wearing man says before he moves through a narrow gap in front of me and pins a microphone to the lapel of the jacket West fussed with earlier.

  “It’s okay, Reid.” Kylee’s hand cups my upper arm, and when I rotate my head, I spy the tissue poking out between her fingers. Tilting my chin back, I search Kylee’s expression, and view her glazed eyes. She’s already about to cry. How will I cope with her crying beside me?

  “You can do this, son.” Ronald’s words are barely audible, and when I look to the jacket he’s wearing, the black coat that is almost identical in style to mine, I see the small red rose pin attached under his microphone. Morgan has always loved roses. Maybe I should have done something like he has.

  “Okay, we’re ready,” Greg says after he assists in running the wire of the microphone up under my shirt and helps tuck the pack at the back of my pants. He offers me a look of sorrow I’ve only ever seen people express when offering condolences. Why do I feel like I’m about to attend Morgan’s funeral?

  My eye begins to twitch as my nerves increase. Kylee shudders beside me, as one would if someone was treading over their grave … We’re a mess, and we’re about to be seen by everyone in the country. My guess is, appearing a mess will be expected.

  “Today I’m in the Banks household with Reid Banks, who is a local and upstanding member of our small community. He’s joined by Detective Astin West of the Rockhampton CIB, and missing local wife and mother, Morgan Banks, parents’, Ronald and Kylee Cuttings, also join us. Thank you for allowing me into your home, Mr Banks.”

  I nod in response.

  “The shock of Morgan’s disappearance is one we believe will be felt throughout our community, and we’re asking anyone who has information to come forward and assist the police. Mr Banks has prepared a short statement he wishes to deliver ... Mr Banks.”

  “Thank you, Greg.” My voice wavers. “I’m Reid Banks, and I’m the husband of Morgan Banks. On Thursday night, Morgan, my wife, did not return home from work, although she was en route to our home at the time.

  "It’s been over thirty-six hours since she’s been missing, and our families are losing hope that Morgan will be found safe and returned to us. Morgan and I are parents to two beautiful children, who are both missing their mum and just want her to come home.” I stop and take a deep breath. My throat goes instantly dry, and my mouth follows suit. I close my eyes to compose myself and take quick breaths before reopening them. Looking straight down the barrel of the giant video camera situated behind the reporter’s head, I sw
allow again, trying to bring moisture to my lips, but it doesn’t work. Say something, Reid.

  “My Morgan is of a slim build, with chestnut brown hair and dark brown eyes. Morgan's 170 centimetres tall and was wearing a pale pink business blouse and a black business skirt when she left to attend work on Thursday morning, the morning of the day she disappeared. We know a man stopped to help Morgan change a flat tyre on her journey home that evening. Police are investigating his whereabouts. If you were the Good Samaritan”—I stumble over the last two words— “please contact the police and give them any information you can. Morgan is a loving mother to our two children, Brax and Aleeha. She is also a loving and caring wife. Her safe return is our only focus, and until we find her we will not rest.” I stop speaking, and I look into the lens and speak to my wife from my heart, just as West said I should do. “Morgan, honey, if you can see this, please know I love you, we all love you, and I’m doing absolutely everything I can to find you. I’ll never give up. I PROMISE.” I emphasise the word “promise” as I hear Kylee sobbing beside me. “Please help us find Morgan. She’s our world, and without her, we’re nothing. I need my wife to come home; give her back to us. Please, if you’ve taken her, just let her come home.” My voice cracks, on the word “home”. Tears well in my eyes.

  “Bring her home,” Kylee sobs.

  “Give me back my daughter,” Ronald follows.

  “Detective West, what information can you offer the community, and what leads are you and the police force pursuing at this time?”

  “Thank you, Gregory. As Mr Banks has said, Morgan is a Caucasian woman, About 170 centimetres tall. With brown hair and brown eyes. She was wearing a pale pink top and a business skirt at the time of her disappearance. We are asking the community to help identify the man who stopped to help Mrs Morgan Banks change a flat tyre on the night of her disappearance, before she was involved in a minor collision close to her home. Morgan’s SUV, number plate B.A.N.K.S 0.2, was recovered on the evening of her disappearance, and we are asking any witnesses who may have seen the collision to come forth also. At this time, we are following many leads and remain positive that we will locate Morgan safe. We need the community’s help. Please, if you have any information call Crime Stoppers.”

  “That number for Crime Stoppers is now flashing across the bottom of your television screens. Detective West, have there been any demands for a ransom or calls made to the police in connection with Morgan’s disappearance?”

  “We would prefer not to comment on that at this time. But what I can say is that Mr Reid Banks, along with family members, are not suspects in Morgan’s disappearance. They have no involvement and are desperate to have Morgan home. They are cooperating in all matters related to Morgan’s disappearance.”

  “Thank you. Again, if you have any information, please call the Rockhampton police or Crime Stoppers.”

  Every bit of me hopes someone watching can tell us where Morgan is, and I also hope that psychopathic prick is watching and knows that I’m coming for him. I’ll get my revenge, even if it takes until the final seconds of my life to do so. As Greg’s shoulders slump, and the red lights on the camera behind him disappear, I realise I’m scowling.

  I’m going to kill the bastard who took Morgan with my bare hands; I just need to find him.

  Morgan

  A mirror!

  No doubt it’s a trap, and visions of the wolf slitting my throat as I watch my murder in the reflection causes my teeth to bear down as I shiver.

  Moving closer, another gleam of light blinds me. This process repeats until I’m flush in front of the mirror. A mirror. Why?

  It’s an oval, rustic antique-looking—sterling-silver mirror, and there's writing scrawled on the glass in bright red lipstick.

  Morgan, the game is almost over. Look at your reflection; you’re disgusting.

  I’ve left a present for you on the back of this mirror, Red.

  I’m coming for you.

  Who am I?

  It becomes hard to swallow. Tears will drown me if I let them fall again. I can’t melt into a puddle of pity like I allowed myself to do before. I need to keep my emotions under control. Visions of Reid and the kids far from my mind. Focus. Focus on what I can do to help myself now, not what I’ll lose if I don’t.

  I’m hesitant at the thought of looking behind the mirror. My breathing is rapid. I discard the stick acting as my cane. What is waiting for me behind this mirror resting in the middle of bushland like a prop from a movie set?

  I inhale three breaths and hold onto the frame as I shift my position. I gasp, strangling my mouth with my hands, sucking back my need to scream out. I’m haunted. A large photograph. It’s a collage of photos numbered, one through to thirteen. Under each number is a corresponding picture of a woman who has died brutally and disgustingly. The music playing only intensifies the horror these images supply. My mouth falls open, and I dry-heave until my stomach stops rolling over itself. I don’t want to look again, but I force myself to view each one. Any information is important. Do I know any of these women? I soon realise I don’t, not even one from what I can make out from these photographs.

  Each visual is worse than the last; my stomach clenches as my heart pounds with a sense of urgency. All I can identify is that each of these women lies lifeless in bushland, and each of these photographs has freshly bloomed roses scattered around the corpse. I start with the first picture and count the roses; there are thirteen. I move to the second and count the stems; also thirteen. I don’t stop until I get to number thirteen, which also has thirteen roses laid out on a white background. There are two words written in the centre of the white background.

  Red, RUN!

  I spin in a circle … searching. I can sense his presence. Goosebumps coat my skin from my wrists to my ankles.

  But there’s nobody here. It’s just me, this mirror, and twelve ghosts who once lived. Twelve spirits who have a horrific story of their own to share, but no voice to do so. I need to be their voice. I need to survive for them, too.

  The music stops. My heart thuds one intense beat and then races. I’m not running. I’m still. Fearful. Broken. Hurt. Lost.

  “You just couldn’t be what you were supposed to be, Morgan.” His voice plays from the boom box on the ground in front of me, the same one that’s been playing the song. “These bitches weren’t what they were supposed to be either.” There’s a long pause. “This is what happens to thieves, traitors, and whores … they get their punishment.”

  I scrunch my fists together and raise them in front of my face.

  “I knew you wouldn’t run, but I wish you had. You’re going to wish you did, too.”

  “Fuuuuuck!” I scream as I’m pulled down like the earth is swallowing me whole from below my feet. I’m falling.

  Wrapped in a blanket of darkness, my body bounces from side to side. I roll before I’m upright once more. I reach out my arms like Jesus on the cross and dig my nails into what feels like compacted soil.

  “Oh God, oh God,” I cry out. “Ouuuuch.” I cry harder as I feel my nails peel away from my flesh. I flip over myself. I flip again … thud.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

  There’s a halo of light in the distance. A blurry tattered curtain sways with a gusting wind that rushes through the ripped material and brings a coolness to my limbs. At first, it’s pleasant, welcomed. Then it freezes cold and burns. It’s burning me. I try to move from its path, but I can’t even lift my head. I’m a lump of lead, one too heavy to carry or shift. I feel trapped in my own body with my mind racing, ordering a million commands, my body unable to follow a single one.

  “Help.” It’s a weak deliverance of the word, spoken so quietly even I barely hear myself.

  “Morgan. Morgan.” The call of my name sounds laced with worry. “Baby, you’re not alone. I’m here. I’m with you.”

  “Reid.” I can smell his cologne. I can feel his fingertip tracing a line down my cheek.

&nb
sp; “Yes. I’m here.” He’s cradling my head.

  There’s warmth, so much warmth fighting away the cold I'm experiencing, and the sound of my heart beating is loud but slow. I relax into him.

  “You can’t give up. Promise me you won’t give up.”

  I cry, beads of liquid tickle my lips.

  “Don’t cry, Morgan. Please don’t cry.” Soft pillows press to my forehead. “I’ve got you. Don’t cry.”

  “Reid.” I flick my eyes upwards in their sockets, almost rolling them into the back of my head. One painful thump accompanies this action.

  “Close your eyes. Take a moment. Rest. You need rest.”

  “Reid,” I cry out once more.

  “Morgan. Sleep. You need your strength.” My fingers are stretched wide, and then I feel his fingers slipped between mine. “I’ll stay with you. I’ll guard you while you sleep. Nothing will happen. You trust me, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I breathe as I allow my eyelids to fall closed, and I listen to every slow drawn-out breath he takes.

  “I’m waiting for you, Morgan. I’m searching for you. We’re doing everything we can to find you. I won’t let you down, baby. Please don’t give up on me.”

  “I won’t,” I mumble as I feel my shoulders drop and my limbs lighten. I’m no longer lead. I’m free … floating … at rest.

  “Morgan. Wake up. You need to wake up now.” It’s a panicked request. Reid’s breathing is rapid. His hands are rough. They pull me and shake me.

  “Reid?”

  I bolt upright. I'm panting, searching ... It’s so dark.

  Where the hell am I?

  Reid

  The mattress of our bed takes my weight. I sit staring out the bedroom window, thoughts running through my head as I eye the well-manicured grass of the neighbouring property across from us. What must our neighbours think of all of this? They’re probably concerned.