Prologue
She stood naked behind the glass, twenty stories above the pavement, as the sun began to bleed it’s red and purple entrails across the choppy surface of the lake. She felt something. Not a wholly unusual experience, but it was different this time. It was warm and frighteningly pleasant. A soft blanket of contentment so far removed from her normal icy sensibilities that it took her a moment to recognize it.
Love.
She was in love. It was a realization so astonishing that it made her gasp out loud.
“You okay?” came a sleepy voice behind her.
She smiled and turned. The object of her affection lay stretched out in the enormous king sized bed that she had also occupied not long ago. She gazed at him adoringly and shifted her weight so that her hips moved in an alluring way. The man raised his eyebrows in mock alarm and pushed himself up to a sitting position. He yawned and raised a hand too late to cover his mouth.
“That’s a look I haven’t seen before,” he said. “Who are you and what have you done with my girl?”
His girl. The words sent shivers down her spine. She’d heard them before, but suddenly they meant something else, something more.
She put on a pout and sauntered over to the night stand. She grabbed a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a small pink Bic lighter from the top and tapped out the sole remaining butt. It was crooked and she straightened it out a bit before laying it gently between her lips and lighting in. Two short puffs, then one long luxurious drag that she exhaled melodramatically.
“Is this better?” she said playfully.
He laughed.
“It’s not worse,” he said.
“Mmmm,” she purred and tossed the cigarette in a half empty martini glass on the night stand. She pounced on him like a cat and knocked him back down on the bed.
She kissed him. She pressed her naked body against his and kissed him deep with power and purpose.
“You taste like smoke,” he said when they broke apart.
“I know,” she said.
“So what was it?”
She pursed her lips.
“What was what?” she asked.
“What were you thinking about just now?”
She sat up straddling him and stretched. She let out a soft moan and put back on the adoring expression.
“Yeah,” he said. “That, what were you thinking about that made you look like that.”
A devilish grin broke across her face.
“I was thinking,” she said. “That we should get married.”
She stood naked behind the glass, twenty stories above the pavement, as the sun began to bleed it’s red and purple entrails across the choppy surface of the lake. She felt something. Not a wholly unusual experience, but it was different this time. It was warm and frighteningly pleasant. A soft blanket of contentment so far removed from her normal icy sensibilities that it took her a moment to recognize it.
Love.
She was in love. It was a realization so astonishing that it made her gasp out loud.
“You okay?” came a sleepy voice behind her.
She smiled and turned. The object of her affection lay stretched out in the enormous king sized bed that she had also occupied not long ago. She gazed at him adoringly and shifted her weight so that her hips moved in an alluring way. The man raised his eyebrows in mock alarm and pushed himself up to a sitting position. He yawned and raised a hand too late to cover his mouth.
“That’s a look I haven’t seen before,” he said. “Who are you and what have you done with my girl?”
His girl. The words sent shivers down her spine. She’d heard them before, but suddenly they meant something else, something more.
She put on a pout and sauntered over to the night stand. She grabbed a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a small pink Bic lighter from the top and tapped out the sole remaining butt. It was crooked and she straightened it out a bit before laying it gently between her lips and lighting in. Two short puffs, then one long luxurious drag that she exhaled melodramatically.
“Is this better?” she said playfully.
He laughed.
“It’s not worse,” he said.
“Mmmm,” she purred and tossed the cigarette in a half empty martini glass on the night stand. She pounced on him like a cat and knocked him back down on the bed.
She kissed him. She pressed her naked body against his and kissed him deep with power and purpose.
“You taste like smoke,” he said when they broke apart.
“I know,” she said.
“So what was it?”
She pursed her lips.
“What was what?” she asked.
“What were you thinking about just now?”
She sat up straddling him and stretched. She let out a soft moan and put back on the adoring expression.
“Yeah,” he said. “That, what were you thinking about that made you look like that.”
A devilish grin broke across her face.
“I was thinking,” she said. “That we should get married.”
Chapter 1
Scene 1
She was broken. Split lip, black eye, and she was pretty sure her nose smashed. When she woke up in his apartment she wasn’t at all sure where she was or why she was there, though those details eventually came back to her, but when they did they came with terrifying new questions.
The heavy steel door swung open with a crash. She sat bolt upright at the sound and without thinking tried to stand up. She was abruptly yanked back down into the uncomfortable metal folding chair under her by the handcuffs around her wrists. They were tight, digging into her skin and fastened to the dull gray metal table in front of her by a loop welded to the center of its surface.
She winced in pain and curled herself back over the table. It was cold and hard and it made her skin crawl to touch it. The whole room made her anxious in fact. Small, poorly lit, painted an unsettling off gray with a huge corner to corner mirror taking up one whole wall, it was exactly like she would have thought an interrogation room would look like, but she was surprised at how it made her feel.
Two men walked into the cinder block room. The first stormed in red faced and full of steam. The second strolled in casually flipping absent mindedly though a small black notebook and chewing on the end of a worn out pencil stub. Both men wore plain blue suits with leather backed brass badges hanging from their breast pockets.
The first man circled the table a few times inspecting her while the second found a comfortable place to lean against the wall. When he was settled the first yanked out the chair across from her and dropped into the seat like a bag of bricks.
“Weather Kimberly Rose,” he said making her name sound like and accusation.
She looked at him trying to mask her fear with an expression of confusion. He stared back at her with steely eyed conviction and let the silent answer to his question hang in the air. After a while he said it again.
“You are Weather Kimberly Rose. Correct?”
She looked back at him and parted her lips as if to speak, then thought better of it and sealed them again. They gazed at each other and the second man removed the chewed up pencil from between his teeth and jotted something down in his notebook.
The man sitting across from her let out a long sigh and leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms and seemed to look her over like she was a bizarre piece of modern art. Weather was terrified, but determined to stay focused and present. She bit the inside of her lower lip and let the pain clear the mental fog.
“Maybe,” she said finally. “We should start with who you are and what, exactly, I’m doing here.”
The man’s expression didn’t falter. He looked her in the eyes and nodded once, waited for a moment as if reconsidering, then nodded again.
“I’m Detective Jacobs. This,” he gestured sideways with a tilt of his head, never breaking eye contact with Weather, “is Detective Stiller.”
He stopped talking.
Weather nodded and waited.
The silence stretched out.
One of the florescent lights in the room began to flicker obnoxiously then stopped again.
The Detective didn’t move. Weather didn’t either.
The light flickered again.
“And why am I here?” Weather asked again.
The Detective narrowed his eyes.
Weather felt the tension in her chest growing like a balloon being inflated past it’s capacity. There was a ringing in her ears and the room started to swim before her eyes. A small tingle in the middle of her back grew to a huge numb spot spreading between her shoulder blades and her fingers got cold and brittle feeling. She felt her breath getting shallower and her heart starting to beat harder and harder in her chest. She ran through the checklist for stroke symptoms in her head and then-
“You’re here because you’re under arrest for murder.”
Pop!
There was a quick sound of water rushing past her ears and then everything stopped. The ringing in her ears was gone. Her vision was clear and her body was fine. No numbness, no pain, her breathing was normal and her heart rate was stable.
She stared coldly back at the detective. She looked over at the man taking notes. She looked at herself in the eight foot wide mirror and took in her battered reflection.
She was in orange pants and shirt that the booking officer had provided her. Her face was yellow and orange and black and blue. There was rust colored dried blood smeared across her face and her nose was pointing in an unnatural direction. Her hair was a rat’s nest and clumped together with blood. She looked like she had gone ten rounds with a master fighter and lost.
She laughed.
“Grayson right?”
The Detective didn’t respond.
She shook her head.
“Have you looked at me Detective. I’m five foot nothing. I weigh a hundred and five pounds soaking wet, and I look like I just played three periods against the Blackhawks without pads on. You think I killed someone in the FBI?”
The detective uncrossed his arms and straightened up in his chair. He looked at her long and hard, then leaned in across the table.
“Yes Ma’am, I do.”
He looked to the other man.
“Stiller,” he said.
The man with the notebook closed it and stuck it in his pocket. He stuck the remains of the number two behind his ear and stood up straight.
“Weather Kimberly Rose,” he said. “You are under arrest for the murder of United States Special Prosecutor Brandon Grayson. You have the right to remain silent…”
The heavy steel door swung open with a crash. She sat bolt upright at the sound and without thinking tried to stand up. She was abruptly yanked back down into the uncomfortable metal folding chair under her by the handcuffs around her wrists. They were tight, digging into her skin and fastened to the dull gray metal table in front of her by a loop welded to the center of its surface.
She winced in pain and curled herself back over the table. It was cold and hard and it made her skin crawl to touch it. The whole room made her anxious in fact. Small, poorly lit, painted an unsettling off gray with a huge corner to corner mirror taking up one whole wall, it was exactly like she would have thought an interrogation room would look like, but she was surprised at how it made her feel.
Two men walked into the cinder block room. The first stormed in red faced and full of steam. The second strolled in casually flipping absent mindedly though a small black notebook and chewing on the end of a worn out pencil stub. Both men wore plain blue suits with leather backed brass badges hanging from their breast pockets.
The first man circled the table a few times inspecting her while the second found a comfortable place to lean against the wall. When he was settled the first yanked out the chair across from her and dropped into the seat like a bag of bricks.
“Weather Kimberly Rose,” he said making her name sound like and accusation.
She looked at him trying to mask her fear with an expression of confusion. He stared back at her with steely eyed conviction and let the silent answer to his question hang in the air. After a while he said it again.
“You are Weather Kimberly Rose. Correct?”
She looked back at him and parted her lips as if to speak, then thought better of it and sealed them again. They gazed at each other and the second man removed the chewed up pencil from between his teeth and jotted something down in his notebook.
The man sitting across from her let out a long sigh and leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms and seemed to look her over like she was a bizarre piece of modern art. Weather was terrified, but determined to stay focused and present. She bit the inside of her lower lip and let the pain clear the mental fog.
“Maybe,” she said finally. “We should start with who you are and what, exactly, I’m doing here.”
The man’s expression didn’t falter. He looked her in the eyes and nodded once, waited for a moment as if reconsidering, then nodded again.
“I’m Detective Jacobs. This,” he gestured sideways with a tilt of his head, never breaking eye contact with Weather, “is Detective Stiller.”
He stopped talking.
Weather nodded and waited.
The silence stretched out.
One of the florescent lights in the room began to flicker obnoxiously then stopped again.
The Detective didn’t move. Weather didn’t either.
The light flickered again.
“And why am I here?” Weather asked again.
The Detective narrowed his eyes.
Weather felt the tension in her chest growing like a balloon being inflated past it’s capacity. There was a ringing in her ears and the room started to swim before her eyes. A small tingle in the middle of her back grew to a huge numb spot spreading between her shoulder blades and her fingers got cold and brittle feeling. She felt her breath getting shallower and her heart starting to beat harder and harder in her chest. She ran through the checklist for stroke symptoms in her head and then-
“You’re here because you’re under arrest for murder.”
Pop!
There was a quick sound of water rushing past her ears and then everything stopped. The ringing in her ears was gone. Her vision was clear and her body was fine. No numbness, no pain, her breathing was normal and her heart rate was stable.
She stared coldly back at the detective. She looked over at the man taking notes. She looked at herself in the eight foot wide mirror and took in her battered reflection.
She was in orange pants and shirt that the booking officer had provided her. Her face was yellow and orange and black and blue. There was rust colored dried blood smeared across her face and her nose was pointing in an unnatural direction. Her hair was a rat’s nest and clumped together with blood. She looked like she had gone ten rounds with a master fighter and lost.
She laughed.
“Grayson right?”
The Detective didn’t respond.
She shook her head.
“Have you looked at me Detective. I’m five foot nothing. I weigh a hundred and five pounds soaking wet, and I look like I just played three periods against the Blackhawks without pads on. You think I killed someone in the FBI?”
The detective uncrossed his arms and straightened up in his chair. He looked at her long and hard, then leaned in across the table.
“Yes Ma’am, I do.”
He looked to the other man.
“Stiller,” he said.
The man with the notebook closed it and stuck it in his pocket. He stuck the remains of the number two behind his ear and stood up straight.
“Weather Kimberly Rose,” he said. “You are under arrest for the murder of United States Special Prosecutor Brandon Grayson. You have the right to remain silent…”
Scene 2
The dim room was warm with the sultry murmur of a poorly played upright piano. Gavin Gayle sat in the back smoking a cigarette and watching the several patrons spread out in twos whispering secrets over chipped tumblers of drugstore liquor. He wasn’t particularly interested in who they were or what they were saying, but the fact that they came here and hatched their plans and made their deals gave him a certain cynical comfort.
It wasn’t schadenfreude exactly. He took no pleasure in knowing the world was run by villains and thugs, but it was reassuring to know that he wasn’t the only one that played at this game. The world was a dirty place and he had come to accept that it took dirty men to keep it running. Men like him weren’t wanted by polite society, but without them polite society would come apart at the seams.
He took a long drag of his cigarette and leaned back in the deep leather booth. He exhaled a long stream of bluish smoke and let his eyes go blurry. It had been a long week in a life that had no short ones. Time was unwinding slower and slower with every act of depravity forced upon him and he silently questioned how much longer he could endure his unwilling service to this place.
The door to the club swung open with it’s signature rusted squeal and it snapped him out of his malaise. He looked up and saw Detective Hinde step into the smokey room from the shadows of the threshold. He straightened up and drew again from his smoke before crushing the butt out in an overfull ashtray. It was unlike the police to visit him here and the unusual made him nervous.
The detective was out of uniform, wearing a tight but professional skirt, white cotton blouse and heels. She was telling the room that she was off duty and not here in any professional capacity. Oddly this made Gavin feel worse about the visit, not better. She made her way across the worn wood floor of the club and stepped up into his private dining area.
She stood for a moment, the two of them eyeing each other in uncomfortable silence, then Gavin nodded at the chair across from him and the detective took a seat.
“Megan,” he said with a voice like dry leaves.
She gave a sad smile by way of response.
He let out a long sigh and took a sip of brown booze from a glass on the table.
“Well, you’re not dressed for business and, sadly, you never seem to show up looking for pleasure, so what is it?”
She stared at him, scanning his features and expression. Trying to find a hidden meaning in his words.
“Well pleasure isn’t really your stock and trade now is it Mr. Gayle?”
He thought about this for a moment.
“What do you want Megan?”
“It’s-” she started, but cut herself off.
“It’s what?” he asked.
“Well Gavin,” she paused. “It’s Weather,” she spat out like the words were poison.
Gavin didn’t say anything. His expression didn’t change. He sat holding her eyes with his, letting the words hang in the air between them.
“It’s about Weather how?” he asked finally with slow and measured speech.
Detective Hinde broke eye contact and looked at the table. She shifted in her seat and tried to look back at Gavin, but couldn’t hold his gaze.
“She’s been arrested,” she said.
“For what?”
She looked him in the eyes.
“Murder.”
Gavin breathed. He sat back in his seat then pulled himself back up to the table. He grabbed up a flat silver case, pulled out a long cigarette and screwed it between his lips. There was a snap as he opened a narrow gold Zippo lighter and pulled the flame to his face. He puffed twice on the coffin nail then clicked it shut and dragged hard on his smoke.
“Let her go,” he said finally, blowing smoke as he spoke.
“Gavin-” the detective started.
“Tell the Lieutenant to let-”
“Gavin, he can’t.”
Gavin stopped speaking. He was rigid and his pale Irish face was getting red.
“He can’t,” she said again. “Gavin, she killed a Fed. Some DOJ lawyer. We’ve got her now, but the FBI is on the way down there. They’re going to take her, we can’t do anything here.”
Gavin shook his head.
“No. No she didn’t do that. Come on Megan,” he was shouting now. “You fucking know she didn’t do that.”
Detective Hinde put on a wincing smile. She nodded understandingly.
“Maybe. Probably. You’re probably right, but it doesn’t matter. They found her at the scene Gavin. They found her there naked. There’s no way we can let her go. There’s nothing we can do.”
There was a moment of tense quiet.
“And Gavin, you can’t-”
“What?”
She stopped.
“What Megan? I can’t what?”
She flinched slightly at his anger.
“I can do all the other shit you guys ask me to do!”
The detective shifted uncomfortably and straightened up into a professional posture.
“Gavin, we never-”
“Bullshit!” he screamed.
The restaurant went quiet. The music stopped and the various guests of the establishment started to silently get up from their seats and retreat out the front door one by one.
“Don’t tell me it’s not you,” he said. “Do you think I differentiate? Do you think I care whos fucking office those little packages come from. Ask yourself if you think I see any difference between you and her.”
He said the word with terrifying contempt.
“You go down there. You go down there and you let her go. You fucking do it. Fucking do it right now!”
Megan looked at the floor. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes swollen and glossy. She stood up silently and, after a pitying sigh, walked towards the door. At the step to the main dining room she stopped. She paused while she gathered her confidence then she turned.
“I’m sorry Gavin. We can’t help her, and if you get into it with the feds, well, we won’t be able to help you either.”
Gavin roared and lifted the table in front of him then smashed it back down to the ground. Debris crashed to the floor and a cloud of ash filled the space between the two of them. Detective Hinde turned and walked across the room and out the door making it squeal and slam shut behind her.
It wasn’t schadenfreude exactly. He took no pleasure in knowing the world was run by villains and thugs, but it was reassuring to know that he wasn’t the only one that played at this game. The world was a dirty place and he had come to accept that it took dirty men to keep it running. Men like him weren’t wanted by polite society, but without them polite society would come apart at the seams.
He took a long drag of his cigarette and leaned back in the deep leather booth. He exhaled a long stream of bluish smoke and let his eyes go blurry. It had been a long week in a life that had no short ones. Time was unwinding slower and slower with every act of depravity forced upon him and he silently questioned how much longer he could endure his unwilling service to this place.
The door to the club swung open with it’s signature rusted squeal and it snapped him out of his malaise. He looked up and saw Detective Hinde step into the smokey room from the shadows of the threshold. He straightened up and drew again from his smoke before crushing the butt out in an overfull ashtray. It was unlike the police to visit him here and the unusual made him nervous.
The detective was out of uniform, wearing a tight but professional skirt, white cotton blouse and heels. She was telling the room that she was off duty and not here in any professional capacity. Oddly this made Gavin feel worse about the visit, not better. She made her way across the worn wood floor of the club and stepped up into his private dining area.
She stood for a moment, the two of them eyeing each other in uncomfortable silence, then Gavin nodded at the chair across from him and the detective took a seat.
“Megan,” he said with a voice like dry leaves.
She gave a sad smile by way of response.
He let out a long sigh and took a sip of brown booze from a glass on the table.
“Well, you’re not dressed for business and, sadly, you never seem to show up looking for pleasure, so what is it?”
She stared at him, scanning his features and expression. Trying to find a hidden meaning in his words.
“Well pleasure isn’t really your stock and trade now is it Mr. Gayle?”
He thought about this for a moment.
“What do you want Megan?”
“It’s-” she started, but cut herself off.
“It’s what?” he asked.
“Well Gavin,” she paused. “It’s Weather,” she spat out like the words were poison.
Gavin didn’t say anything. His expression didn’t change. He sat holding her eyes with his, letting the words hang in the air between them.
“It’s about Weather how?” he asked finally with slow and measured speech.
Detective Hinde broke eye contact and looked at the table. She shifted in her seat and tried to look back at Gavin, but couldn’t hold his gaze.
“She’s been arrested,” she said.
“For what?”
She looked him in the eyes.
“Murder.”
Gavin breathed. He sat back in his seat then pulled himself back up to the table. He grabbed up a flat silver case, pulled out a long cigarette and screwed it between his lips. There was a snap as he opened a narrow gold Zippo lighter and pulled the flame to his face. He puffed twice on the coffin nail then clicked it shut and dragged hard on his smoke.
“Let her go,” he said finally, blowing smoke as he spoke.
“Gavin-” the detective started.
“Tell the Lieutenant to let-”
“Gavin, he can’t.”
Gavin stopped speaking. He was rigid and his pale Irish face was getting red.
“He can’t,” she said again. “Gavin, she killed a Fed. Some DOJ lawyer. We’ve got her now, but the FBI is on the way down there. They’re going to take her, we can’t do anything here.”
Gavin shook his head.
“No. No she didn’t do that. Come on Megan,” he was shouting now. “You fucking know she didn’t do that.”
Detective Hinde put on a wincing smile. She nodded understandingly.
“Maybe. Probably. You’re probably right, but it doesn’t matter. They found her at the scene Gavin. They found her there naked. There’s no way we can let her go. There’s nothing we can do.”
There was a moment of tense quiet.
“And Gavin, you can’t-”
“What?”
She stopped.
“What Megan? I can’t what?”
She flinched slightly at his anger.
“I can do all the other shit you guys ask me to do!”
The detective shifted uncomfortably and straightened up into a professional posture.
“Gavin, we never-”
“Bullshit!” he screamed.
The restaurant went quiet. The music stopped and the various guests of the establishment started to silently get up from their seats and retreat out the front door one by one.
“Don’t tell me it’s not you,” he said. “Do you think I differentiate? Do you think I care whos fucking office those little packages come from. Ask yourself if you think I see any difference between you and her.”
He said the word with terrifying contempt.
“You go down there. You go down there and you let her go. You fucking do it. Fucking do it right now!”
Megan looked at the floor. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes swollen and glossy. She stood up silently and, after a pitying sigh, walked towards the door. At the step to the main dining room she stopped. She paused while she gathered her confidence then she turned.
“I’m sorry Gavin. We can’t help her, and if you get into it with the feds, well, we won’t be able to help you either.”
Gavin roared and lifted the table in front of him then smashed it back down to the ground. Debris crashed to the floor and a cloud of ash filled the space between the two of them. Detective Hinde turned and walked across the room and out the door making it squeal and slam shut behind her.
Scene 3
It was a dark and angry ride from the club on the deep south side of Chicago to the nineteenth precinct where Gavin assumed they were holding Weather. It wasn’t a completely random assumption. That was Megan’s precinct, that’s where her desk was, and she had said we have her, not they have her. He could be wrong, but in his experience when she said we, she wasn’t talking about the police.
It was 9:00 PM when Gavin made the hard right off of Marquette onto Lake Shore Drive. He had been doing seventy on the side streets and out of concern for sheer physics let the mint condition 1974 Firebird drop to fifty-five before making the turn. Once on the straight-away of LSD, however, he pressed his foot to the floor and was doing ninety miles an hour before he made it off the Jackson Park peninsula. His rage was running the show now and he knew that that was never good.
It was his rage that had brought about the abrupt end to his normal life fifteen years ago, and it was his rage that had funneled him into the life he had now. Rage had always been his enemy and his weakness. He had spent years fighting himself for control of his emotions and until tonight, he thought he had finally won that battle. Now it was all back, the same surging anger, the same frantic mindset, the same unbridled loss of control that could only ever lead to making a situation worse than it started. Part of him was crying out to let it go, to calm down and regain control of himself, but his emotional core was impenetrable to his logic now. He didn’t want to level out. He didn’t want to think critically. What he wanted was to kill every single person that had made his life into the nightmare that he lived in everyday.
That was a lie too though. If he listened to the reasonable voices in his head he knew that revenge wasn’t his goal. He wasn’t really mad at the people who held his marionette strings, not anymore than he was yesterday, or even an hour ago at least. He didn’t even want to hurt anyone. Not really. All he really wanted, all he had ever really wanted was to save Weather.
That was what it all boiled down to. That was the origin story for his whole adult life. The only thing that had ever really mattered was her. She was his impetus, his reason for being. If he had it all to do over again, every moment of the last decade and a half, if he could take it all back and change that one night, he knew he wouldn’t. He knew that, no matter what, any time Weather was concerned, he would do whatever he had to and that would always lead back to where he was now; cresting one hundred miles an hour around deadman’s turn on Lake Shore Drive heading for what certainly was going to be the end of his life.
It was 9:00 PM when Gavin made the hard right off of Marquette onto Lake Shore Drive. He had been doing seventy on the side streets and out of concern for sheer physics let the mint condition 1974 Firebird drop to fifty-five before making the turn. Once on the straight-away of LSD, however, he pressed his foot to the floor and was doing ninety miles an hour before he made it off the Jackson Park peninsula. His rage was running the show now and he knew that that was never good.
It was his rage that had brought about the abrupt end to his normal life fifteen years ago, and it was his rage that had funneled him into the life he had now. Rage had always been his enemy and his weakness. He had spent years fighting himself for control of his emotions and until tonight, he thought he had finally won that battle. Now it was all back, the same surging anger, the same frantic mindset, the same unbridled loss of control that could only ever lead to making a situation worse than it started. Part of him was crying out to let it go, to calm down and regain control of himself, but his emotional core was impenetrable to his logic now. He didn’t want to level out. He didn’t want to think critically. What he wanted was to kill every single person that had made his life into the nightmare that he lived in everyday.
That was a lie too though. If he listened to the reasonable voices in his head he knew that revenge wasn’t his goal. He wasn’t really mad at the people who held his marionette strings, not anymore than he was yesterday, or even an hour ago at least. He didn’t even want to hurt anyone. Not really. All he really wanted, all he had ever really wanted was to save Weather.
That was what it all boiled down to. That was the origin story for his whole adult life. The only thing that had ever really mattered was her. She was his impetus, his reason for being. If he had it all to do over again, every moment of the last decade and a half, if he could take it all back and change that one night, he knew he wouldn’t. He knew that, no matter what, any time Weather was concerned, he would do whatever he had to and that would always lead back to where he was now; cresting one hundred miles an hour around deadman’s turn on Lake Shore Drive heading for what certainly was going to be the end of his life.
