Free The Darkness to Come by Brandon Massey Page A

a shelf, the novels and business texts that packed the bookcase, the photograph of a sun-splashed beach standing on the corner of the desk.
    Hunched forward, he began to type in anything that came to mind, combinations of numbers and letters, her birth date, their anniversary, his own birth date, the name of her favorite restaurant . . .
    None of them worked.
    Sighing, he spun away from the computer. His knee bumped against the desk and set a ballpoint pen rolling across the desktop. It dropped into a small trashcan.
    He reached inside the can to retrieve the pen. His fingers brushed across a crumpled piece of paper.
    He pulled out the pen, and the paper. He unfurled the paper on his lap.
    It appeared to be a print-out of a web page. Unfortunately, the ink cartridge had run dry while printing the document; the text was so faint it was virtually unreadable.
    Joshua raised the page to the overhead light, squinted.
    He could make out four words: Illinois Department of Corrections.
    There was other text, but it was too pale for him to decipher.
    He checked the trashcan again. It contained only a discarded wrapper from a black ink cartridge. Nothing else.
    Apparently, Rachel had printed this document, seen the low-quality of the text, and had then replaced the cartridge. After which, she presumably reprinted the page.
    There was a two-drawer filing cabinet on the other side of the room. He opened the drawers, found the expected files: documents for their home, insurance, tax returns, marriage certificate, financial investments. Nothing suspicious.
    He examined the page again. He’d at least learned why he’d glimpsed the word “penitentiary” on her laptop last night—she was researching the Illinois prison system.
    But why?
    He needed more information, and he could get it only from her computer.
    On the screen, the pulsing cursor mocked him.
    A painful idea occurred to him: if he knew his wife better, he would know her password. If they were truly soul mates, as he believed, he would understand how her mind worked, would be able to figure out the secret pass code she would create.
    And the realization brought a more painful truth: if their marriage was stronger, she wouldn’t be hiding anything like this from him in the first place.
    The phone on the desk rang. According to Caller ID, the call was coming from Rachel’s salon.
    Shame burned his face. He grabbed the phone off her desk, and left her study for the hallway.
    “Hey, love,” she said. “Whatca up to?”
    “Just working.”
    “You okay? You sound kinda weird.”
    “I’m fine. Just been busy this morning.”
    “I won’t keep you then. I wanted to let you know that my appointment with the OB-GYN is for two o’clock. You wanted to meet me there, right?”
    “Definitely. Where’s the doctor’s office?”
    She gave him the address, and told him to call her if he didn’t think he’d be able to make it. He assured her that he would be there. They talked a couple more minutes about inconsequential things, and then hung up.
    He returned to her study and replaced the phone on the cradle. He’d left the piece of scrap paper on her desk. He balled it up again, and tossed it in the trash. Then he turned off the laptop, too.
    At the doorway, he gave the room a once-over, to make sure he’d left nothing out of place. The study looked exactly as it had before he’d entered.
    Too bad that he didn’t feel like he had before he’d stepped inside. He had hoped to find answers that would put his mind at ease. But with no clear answers, he felt worse than ever about his wife’s deception. Like a man sinking in quicksand.
     

Chapter 10
     
     
    At a seedy, used-car dealership on the South side, Dexter paid two thousand dollars, cash, for a 1994, black Chevy Caprice Classic with ninety thousand miles on the odometer. The salesman didn’t bother asking for Dexter’s ID, but he gave Dexter the requisite pink slip, which was all Dexter needed.
    The Chevy’s cloth