Page 49 of The Art of Dying

I liked the shit out of Naomi. She reminded me a lot of Alecia—which is probably why Mack had grown so attached to her. Naomi was strong-willed and intimidating, but a big softy toward those she cared about. She was as hardcore as we were, too, growing up in Arizona with a father who ran one of the largest militias in the country. We’d talked Matt and Naomi into renting a house in the neighborhood not long after their wedding for Naomi to stay in while we were down range. We were all surprised she agreed; she’d never lived away from her family before, and she talked about their apartment and how much she loved it all the time, but Naomi had a soft spot for Mack. They’d go together to the gun range while we were deployed and Naomi had even taught my little firecracker enough self-defense moves to keep anyone on their toes. Now that we lived off-base, it was nice to know someone like Naomi was just a block away.

“Karen!” Naomi called, outstretching her arms for my wife.

Mack frowned, but she couldn’t stay mad for long. Naomi Abrams was the only person on the planet who could get away with calling my wife by her real name.

I smiled at Naomi and Mack chatting with wide grins as if it had been six months since they’d been in the same room, but then Matt smacked my back, holding me by the shoulder to his side. “You’d better be careful, Kitsch. You might end up having to fight Naomi for your girl.”

I playfully frowned. “She better bring her A-game. Mack’s the one person on earth I wouldn’t hesitate to die for.”

“That hurts,” Matt said. “I wouldn’t hesitate to die for you.”

“Caroline!” Naomi said in a singsong, sentimental tone with her bottom lip jutted out, pulling her in for a hug, rocking her side to side.

I found it fascinating how Naomi approached everyone according to their demeanor. Mack was a feisty southern girl, but Caroline was a delicate and sophisticated east coast lady. I’d wanted to ask Naomi more than once to join up, especially now that she had a bachelor’s degree under her belt. With her background and education, she’d climb the ranks fast. I wasn’t the only one who knew she’d be a huge asset on deployments, but I never mentioned it for two reasons: having Naomi in play during an op could distract Matt, and the more selfish of the two, that I always knew Mack and the kids were safe when we were away.

Harbinger, Abrams, and I bought houses in the same neighborhood so our wives had each other while we were down range. We had hopes they’d get along, even grow close. We didn’t know they’d end up sisters. When we were home, they usually only saw each other on Sundays, but when we were deployed, they spent nearly every day together. They’d be back to their daily coffees and evening get togethers in a few days. We’d just been assigned.

“Okay, okay, boys,” Mack said, going through the mail on the counter. “Table is set and food is ready. Kitsch and I have been working on the dishwasher, so we’re going to change out of these wet clothes.” She grabbed my hand and led me to the bedroom.

“I have a feeling,” Mack said, pulling her shirt over her head.

“Nah, you don’t.”

“You always say I don’t and I’m always right. You don’t tell me until you get back, but…”

“But I always come back.” I looked down, noticing she had an envelope in her hand. “Is that what I think it is?”

She looked down at it, then walked over to the dresser and opened the top drawer to add it to the rest. They were all different sizes, from mini to typical-sized greeting cards to letters and a few small packages, but all with the same handwriting, and all but one unopened.

“I’m making another formal request for you to read them,” I said. “He knows where you are. We should try to get all the information we can from those letters. Intel is only a good thing.”

“I don’t want to know anything about Mason,” she said, closing the drawer. She turned to me, peeling off her wet clothes. I did the same, changing into a fresh pair of basketball shorts and a lightweight hoodie.

“This is the third time in a row he’s sent you a letter a day or two before a deployment. You think that’s a coincidence?”

She grinned, but it didn’t touch her eyes. She was only trying to set my mind at ease. “How would he know when you’re being deployed?”

“I don’t know, but he does. And it would make me feel better if we knew something about him, too. I’ve let it go and tried to respect your wishes, but I’m convinced this time he knows more than he should. I’d like to know how.”

She changed and gave me a peck on the mouth before returning to our guests. I sighed, walking over to the drawer and opening it, staring at the unopened letters and packages. I picked up the one already opened—the first one he ever sent—and pulled the folded notebook paper from the envelope and read over his weirdly perfect, all-capped handwriting that screamed psychopath.

March 14, 2002

Dear Mack,

You won’t answer my calls, so you’ve forced me to speak to you this way. I know you hate me. I honestly don’t blame you. I went to Ody’s tonight and it somehow reminded me of the first time we went there together. Might have been where I was sitting. Anyways, I hope someday you and I can be friends again or be in each other’s lives. It’s difficult to think that someone so close to me at one point hates everything about me. I get it if that is something you don’t want, but I can’t show you I’ve changed if you just cut me out of your life. You mean too much to me to let that happen. I will always love you and be here for you. I know you still love me. I know this isn’t over. Come home.

Mason

I put them in order by date. The first few were from Seattle, then Quincy, then one from New York. After that, he sent one from her hometown in Tennessee, South Carolina, then one from Russia. After that, they were all from Quincy. But we knew from friends that Mason hadn’t been home in years. That meant he was having someone there mail the letters he’d sent from wherever he was.

I fingered the most recent letter, trying to talk myself out of opening it. I wasn’t sure if Mack would forgive me, so I decided to put it away with the others and close the drawer. I’d never asked her why—if she didn’t want to read them—she didn’t just throw them away, but that was because I already knew the answer. She was keeping Mason safely locked away in that drawer. Throwing them away, she’d feel like they were out there somewhere, unknown and hiding, just like he was.

I made my way back to our friends, seeing they’d already loaded the table with sides and the brisket I’d been smoking. Everyone was chatting away, the energy different than usual. Our Sunday dinners were always a good time, but the Sundays before we deployed always had a different feel. We were happier, we smiled more, hugged more. Gratitude was the vibe. Being fully present was the intention.

I began loading mashed potatoes onto Dylan’s plate, watching Mack stab a fork into a small bite of brisket and feed it to Emily. Mack winked at me and then began talking with Caroline. She hadn’t changed much since we’d met, still beautiful, still feisty. When the first letters came, it’d take her a full day to recover, and there she was, interacting with everyone like her abuser didn’t just contact her again. We’d moved several times, and yet he always found us. I knew it was unsettling to her. Hell, it was unsettling to me. At each new place, there was always a brief moment of relief, until one of his letters came. He’d send one right after I’d get a promotion, when she was pregnant, when she had Dylan and then Emily. He even sent one after she got a new car. Ten years later—now that we knew a letter didn’t mean he’d show up on our doorstep—Mack saw it as more of a pathetic attempt to annoy her. But I knew better. I knew Mason wanted her to feel unsafe, and for a long time I thought he had a plan. I begged her for years to let me read through them for clues so we wouldn’t be caught off guard when he finally followed through, or just to report it to the police. But leaving them sealed and put away in the drawer made her feel safer, so other than asking, I let her do what she needed for her own sanity.

“You still dating that blonde from Florida, Trex?” Martinez asked.

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