The Wall - Part 6

 

Chapter Thirty-One: The Living Daylight

“When the dark closes in, some men build fires to keep it out.”

Evening settled over the cul-de-sac in hushed silence. Streetlights clicked on one by one, their glow stretching across the pavement like weak shields against the night. But Brett’s house shone like no other.

From the outside, it looked ablaze — every window lit, the white glow so fierce it outshone the stars above. It was as though he had summoned daylight and caged it inside.

Inside, Brett stood in the center of his living room, remote clutched in hand. He circled slowly, eyes darting from corner to corner as more lights snapped on. Floor lamps, ceiling lights, sconces — small ones, big ones — until the air itself seemed to hum with electricity.

He shielded his eyes against the glare of one overhead bulb and pressed the button again. The house gave a thunderous CLICK, and outside, the entire structure glowed like a beacon. Night had no place here.

He tossed the remote onto the sofa, satisfied but trembling with the edge of exhaustion. Alone, he turned toward his bedroom, comforted only by the brilliance he had forced into existence.

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Ghost in the Durango

“Sometimes, the shadows follow us even when we run into the light.”

Morning brought no comfort. The crime scene tape still stretched across the guest room door, a scar on his home. The trash still reeked of stale coffee and bitter memories.

Then came the knock.

Brett opened the door cautiously, and there it was — Lauryn’s Durango, parked at the curb, windows dark. His eyes swept the quiet neighborhood. Not a dog barked. Not a curtain twitched.

He edged closer. Lauryn sprawled in the backseat, her peasant skirt hiked just enough to reveal bare feet and shapely thighs. Panic jolted through him when he saw a red liquid drip onto the curb.

“No. No, no—” His voice cracked.

But when he peered inside, his heart stalled. An empty Slurpee cup lay tipped, its cherry ice melting across the floor mat.

Relief swelled, almost comical in its sharpness, but the reprieve lasted only seconds. Lauryn’s eyes snapped open.

Brett yelped, stumbling back, cracking his head on the doorframe before sprawling across the lawn.

Lauryn slid from the car, biting her lip to stifle her laughter. “Are you okay?”

Heat flared in his cheeks. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

She chuckled, and against his will, so did he.

Chapter Thirty-Three: Running Toward Something

“Laughter, even in the dark, is the most dangerous kind of hope.”

Their small talk dissolved into a rhythm neither questioned.

“Sleep?” Brett asked.

“Lousy,” she answered. “You?”

“Horrible. Coffee?”

“I’ll drive.”

She grabbed his hand, pulled him upright, and with sudden energy, shouted, “Race you to the car!”

She darted ahead, her skirt flying, hair bouncing in the sunlight. Without thinking, Brett ran too. For the first time in weeks, he felt light.

She reached the driver’s side first, arms raised in triumph. “You cheated!” he protested, breathless.

“And you’re smiling,” she shot back, eyes sparkling.

He hadn’t realized. But when he did, he smiled bigger.

Moments later, the Durango roared to life, Lauryn at the wheel, Brett beside her. She made a quick U-turn, leaving the neighborhood — and its ghosts — behind.

Chapter Thirty-Four: Manning’s Breaking Point

“Even a strong man will crack when the silence gets too loud.”

The police station thrummed with its usual mix of chaos: phones ringing, officers yelling across desks, the faint buzz of a broken light overhead.

Detective Manning hunched at his desk, papers spread in disarray, his fists clenching and unclenching. The Captain strode past, pulling Detective Tooms aside with a sharp gesture.

“Keep an eye on him,” the Captain ordered under his breath. “It’s not official, but watch him. Give him what he needs.”

Tooms frowned. “What’s going on?”

The Captain sighed. “He’s on the wagon. Thirty days sober. That’s when they slip — the stress, the temptation. I don’t want him unraveling and turning this case into another Briarwood.”

In the background, Manning slammed his keyboard. “What the hell is wrong with goddamn e-mail? Would someone tell me what’s wrong with e-mail?”

A passing officer smirked. “Been down since yesterday. Don’t you check your mail?”

“Up yours!” Manning snapped.

The Captain winced. “You see?”

Tooms nodded reluctantly. “Got you.”

They watched as Manning snatched the phone from its cradle and barked into it. His laughter was strained, manic. When the voice on the other end mentioned email, Manning cursed, demanded faxes instead, and threatened blackmail with casual menace.

He lunged for the fax machine, ripping paperwork from an older female officer’s hands as pages began to spill.

She glared daggers at him, but Manning didn’t care. His world had narrowed to a single truth: something dark was stalking Brett Parker, and he was the only one willing to see it.