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“Mr Stiles, Agent Willis, sir. Good to meet you, sir. I’m sorry for your loss, I mean losses. How are you, sir?”
“Coping, Willis. Just coping.”
“Of course, sir. Would you kindly follow me please, sir?”
Tom had finally agreed to the meeting with the Black Ops Unit just to stop them from contacting him. He felt like he had descended into a caldera. After the short hospital stay and for the first few weeks he was distracted by the funeral arrangements, being strong, being Tom Stiles. Each night was a drunken mess of guilt and suicidal thoughts, sleeplessness or poisoned sleep. It mattered little—there was nothing and no one to live for.
He saw their faces everywhere, smelt them everywhere, felt his betrayal of them in his marrow. One cold morning, he wrote a will and a suicide note—Fo
