Episode 10 (DIFFERENT DNAS)
1296 Words
Chapter 10
Zack's POV
The door shut behind me, but the silence that welcomed me was not peace; it was torment.
I removed my tie and collapsed into the nearest armchair, my breath snagged, strained.
Latifa Del Mona.
Her name resonated off the emptiness of my house like a ghost calling itself out for another.
The same eyes.
The same mutinous set of the chin.
Even her perfume; it tugged at some secret place in me like a recollection I could never define but couldn't let go of.
I shoved my hand through my hair, fighting the ache in my chest.
No. Joyce was dead. Burned. Buried.
He'd buried her.
He'd mourned for her.
He'd paid for it every goddamn day since.
Tonight though.
Her movement.
Mode of speech, it all reminds me of Joyce's.
She looked at me like Joyce did; problem averted, entertained by my confusion.
I got up, walked to the big mirror that hung down the hallway. My face looked at me, white, troubled, unfamiliar.
I hated myself for hoping.
For thinking, just for an instant that she might be…
No.
No, damn it.
But I could not unknow it. Could not not recognize the way my body knew her before my mind did. The hunger that had nearly shattered me when I placed my hand against her wrist.
I had wished to pull her into my arms.
To plead.
To swear.
To bury my face against her throat and say her name, even if she denied me.
Joyce.
But she did not flinch when I said the word. Did not even hesitate.
"You resemble her."
And she had merely smiled.
Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just… invincibly.
A specter in the uniform of power.
I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a drink with trembling hands, and leaned against the counter, looking out the dark window.
Why would she lie, if she was alive?
Lie, to me even?
If she wasn't. Why the bloody hell did I still feel wedded to her?
Yes I am wedded to her. Even until death.
But why do I think that she's gazing at me?
The glass moved slightly in my hand, and I muttered a curse.
She had unraveled me.
Without touching me, without removing anything, she had unpicked the three-year seam I was working on.
And now everything fell apart.
She said her name was Latifa.
But God save me
My heart still whispered Joyce.
Joyce Dutchman.
I poured myself a drink. Did not drink it. Just gazed.
Latifa's face wouldn't dissipate.
Things stayed the same. Those deep eyes. The tilt of the head. The sweet breath that slept alongside me once.
But Joyce had died. Was it?
Dead and long in the ground.
My phone rang.
My gaze on the screen. Dr. Hensley. My off-books coroner who'd worked with Joyce's file. A secret contact through Jude, my buddy. Why today?
I answered, voice a rasp. "Zack Dutchman."
An empty beat. Then….
"Mr. Dutchman. I need you to listen carefully."
My heart tightened. "Go on."
"There's been… an irregularity with the body we identified as your wife."
A hesitation. "What kind of irregularity?"
"We got a call from an unknown person. Reran the DNA. It's not her."
The room shattered.
My glass burst on the floor, shards scattering, amber liquid pooling like blood spilt.
"You're saying…."
"I'm saying the person we put in the ground is not your wife, Mr. Dutchman. They have a different DNA."
I couldn't catch my breath.
"I believe we need to reopen this case in general."
Click.
Silence.
My heart thudded louder. Harder
The words echoing.
‘I'm saying the person we put in the ground is not your wife, Mr. Dutchman. They have a different DNA.’
I stared at the broken glass, but all I could think about was her face.
LATIFA.
The ghost who'd suddenly shown up in my life.
I sank on the floor. No words
But then
I was already moving.
Blood throbbed in my head as I grabbed the phone again, punching in the secure number.
Three rings. Then:
"Boss."
"Status report," I snarled, striding back and forth like a caged beast. "On the body. Bring everything you've got. Every picture, every specimen, every damn print you took off the wreckage."
There was a pause on the line. "We were informed the case was closed. The DNA matched…..”
“It didn't”, my voice was ice. "You were told a lie. I just got off the phone with the goddamn coroner. The body wasn't my wife's."
A beat.
Then, "Copy that. I'll have my people work on everything. It'll be on your desk within the hour.".
“Not just on my desk. I want it re-confirmed. In our facilities this time, not the government's. And check for tampering. I want names. Whoever orchestrated this, I will rip them out of the darkness."
"Yes, sir."
I hung up and stood stock still for a moment, fists clenched, jaw set.
I had wept over her.
I had stood upon ashes and vowed revenge.
And now?
Now, they say it's not her. I have been grieving a specter.
Then who the hell was buried in her name?
And more importantly…
Why did she make me believe she was dead?
Why hasn't she come back home?. Who is she hiding from?. Why would she make me believe her death?
I took my jacket off the chair and pushed one arm through as I strode toward the door. I was halfway through buttoning it up when I nearly collided with a person in the hall.
"Zack?"
My mother.
She looked up at me, eyes wide, face pale.
"I got a call," I told her, tone short. "From the doctor. About Joyce's body."
When I uttered her name, something flickered on her face, something icy and hard that disappeared almost too quickly.
I saw it.
Her fingers grasped the edge of her shawl. "What did they say?"
I scrunched up her eyes. "That it wasn't her."
There. For just a second.
Fear.
Not shock. Not confusion. Fear.
My mom's mouth opened, and then closed. "That's… impossible. They…. there was a ring, a necklace"
"I know," I said, passing by her. "That's what they wanted us to see."
"Zack…."
I was standing in the doorway, turned around to look. Her knuckles were white against the wall.
But I pushed it aside.
Not now.
I had a dead body to uncover.
And a lie to bury.
My fingers dug tighter into the wheel as the car whizzed down the empty road, the night a blur of light and darkness. The cemetery ahead of me, but my mind wasn't there.
It was at the party.
With her.
Latifa Del Luna.
How she walked; head high, every step demanding.
But under the poise, under the chilly stares and practiced reserve, I saw Joyce.
What the hell is she hiding from?
My Joyce.
How she used to brush her hair over her ear when she was nervous. How she tilted her chin when she was lying. The way she had held onto my gaze a second too long. like her very soul still remembered mine.
My heart bashed against my chest.
I braked hard at the cemetery entrance and sprang out, not even letting the engine splutter. Gravel crackled under my feet as I walked towards the gravestone with her name.
Joyce Dutchman.
Beloved Wife.
Cherished Always.
Lies.
I stared at the grave, my chest heaving.
I was grieving a woman who might not have been dead.
I was chasing ghosts.
I wanted answers. I wanted the truth.
I wanted her….my wife.
And I was going to reveal all the secrets that had hidden her from me. No one who had placed them.
- Writer
