Submerged

Shaking off a bout of guilt, he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and entered the master bedroom of the two-bedroom rented duplex. It was devoid of all things feminine, stripped down to the barest essentials. A bed, nightstand and tall dresser. Metal blinds, no flowered curtains like the ones in the house in Edmonton that he’d bought with Jane. The bedspread was a mishmash of brown tones, and it had been hauled up over the single pillow. There were none of the decorative pillows that Jane had loved so much. No silk flowers on the dresser. No citrus Febreeze lingering in the air. No sign of Jane.

He’d hidden her too.

Stepping into the en suite bathroom, Marcus stared into the mirror. He took in the untrimmed moustache and beard that was threatening to engulf his face. Leaning closer, he examined his eyes, which were more gray than blue. He turned his face to catch the light. “I am not tired.”

The dark circles under his eyes betrayed him.

Ignoring Arizona’s watchful gaze, he opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the tube of Preparation H, a trick he’d learned from his wife Jane. Before he’d killed her. A little dab under the eyes, no smiling or frowning, and within seconds the crevices in his skin softened. Some of Jane’s “White Out"—as she used to call the tube of cosmetic concealer—and the shadows would disappear.

“Camouflage on,” he said to his reflection.

A memory of Jane surfaced.

It was the night of the BioWare awards banquet, nineteen years ago. Jane, dressed in a pink housecoat, sat at the bathroom vanity curling her hair, while Marcus struggled with his tie.

He’d let out a curse. “I can never get this right.”

“Here, let me.” Pushing the chair behind him, Jane climbed up before he could protest. She caught his gaze in the mirror over the sink and reached around his shoulders, her gaze wandering to the twisted lump he’d made of the full Windsor. “You shouldn’t be so impatient.”

“You shouldn’t be climbing up on chairs.”

“I’m fine, Marcus.”

“You’re pregnant, that’s what you are.”

“You calling me fat, buster?”

Five months pregnant with Ryan, Jane had never looked so beautiful.

“I’d never do that,” he replied.

She cocked her head and arched one brow. “Never? How about in four months when I can’t walk up the stairs to the bedroom?”

“I’ll carry you.”

“What about when I can’t see my toes and can’t paint my toenails?”

“I’ll paint them for you.”

“What about when―”

He turned his head and kissed her. That shut her up.

With a laugh, she pushed him away, gave the tie a smooth tug and slid the knot expertly into place.

He groaned. “Now why can’t I do that?”

“Because you have me. Now quit distracting me. I still have to put on my dress and makeup.”

Marcus sat on the edge of the bed and waited. Jane always made it worth the wait, and that night she didn’t disappoint him. When she emerged from the bathroom, she was a vision of sultry goddess in a designer dress from a shop in West Edmonton Mall. The baby bump in front was barely noticeable.

“How do I look?” she asked, nervously fingering the fresh gold highlights in her hair.

“Sexy as hell.”

She spun in a slow circle to show off the sleek black dress with its plunging back. Peering over one glitter-powdered shoulder, she said, “So you like my new dress?”

“I’d like it better,” he said in a soft voice, “if it was on the floor.”

Minutes later, they were entwined in the sheets, out of breath and laughing like teenagers. Sex with Jane was always like that. Exciting. Youthful. Fun.

After dressing, Jane retreated to the bathroom to fix her hair and makeup. “Camouflage on,” she said when she returned. “Now let’s get going.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He heard her whispering, “Six plus eight plus two…”

“Are you doing that numerology thing again?” he asked with a grin.

Jane had gone to a psychic fair when she’d found out she was pregnant, and a numerologist had given her a lesson in adding dates. Ever since then, whenever something important came up, she’d work out the numbers to determine if it was going to be a good day or not. She even made Marcus buy lotto tickets on “three days,” which she said meant money coming in. They hadn’t won a lottery yet, but he played along anyway.

“What is it today?”

She smiled. “A seven.”

“Ah, lucky seven.” He arched a brow at her. “So I’m going to get lucky?”

“I think you already did, mister.”

They’d been late for the awards banquet, which didn’t go over too well since Jane was the guest of honor, the recipient of a Best Programmer award for her latest video game creation at BioWare. When Jane had stepped up on the stage to receive her award, Marcus didn’t think he could ever be prouder. Until the night Ryan was born.

Ryan… the son I killed.

Marcus gave his head a jerk, forcing the memories back into the shadows―where they belonged. He picked up the can of shaving cream. His eyes rested, unfocused, on the label.

To shave or not to shave. That was the question.

“Nah, not today,” he muttered.