Betrayed – CORE Sector – First Chapter
Frank Temple poured himself a whiskey as the morning coffee brewed. He’d been drinking for two days. He took a sip and let the amber liquid burn in his mouth before swallowing, unable to shake the uneasy feeling, like a dark shadow hanging over his shoulder, whispering guilt from the corners of the room. He knew it was there, could feel it, sensed it in the creak of the floorboards, in the way the dawn light barely pierced the heavy curtains. The old house felt like it mourned with him, but if he turned to look at it, it was gone.
Drinking at dawn wasn’t the retirement Frank envisioned, no novel begun, only whiskey to dull the nightmare’s return. Every September, it came, relentless, dragging him back to the night he lost them. He knew it wasn’t real—he’d arrived too late, the car already dredged from the Potomac’s maw—but the dream didn’t care. It painted their screams in his mind, vivid as the day they died. He didn’t even need to sleep anymore; the vision struck in the quiet.…
His wife’s scream pierced the storm, sharp as a blade, her hand pressed against the glass, eyes locked on his. The twins’ cries followed, small and desperate. Frank stood frozen on the bridge, his body a traitor, until panic jolted him. He clawed over the guardrail, plunging into water so cold it burned, its current coiling around him like a noose.
The memory of that night had gone through his head a thousand times. He knew it was a dream, but he kept reliving it. And each time he was reminded that his family was gone. Nothing could change that or bring them back.
“Daddy!” a tiny voice cut through the wind and rain like a knife. Frank thrashed in the icy current, lungs burning, guilt heavier than the river pulling him under. The water pulsed with malice, his wife’s screams echoed unnaturally sharp in his head. The river itself mocked his helplessness and returned to him every year to relive the hell and the heartache.
He vaguely remembered the on-duty officer talking to him, “The streets were wet.”
But it didn’t register in his mind.
“She lost control of the car, Frank.”
But she was a good driver. Didn’t they know that?
“Nothing we could do buddy. The twins were with her, Frank.”
Of course they were with her. Where else would they be?
He could still feel the cold rain running down his face.
Diving head first into his work helped him avoid the reality of it, most of the time. Busting sleaze balls was, to some degree, a way of revenge for the loss of his family. In time, it left him cold, lonely and pissed off.
Sweet Evelyn. Not a mean bone in her body. She understood his work—but she wouldn’t have liked who he’d become. If she were alive, he’d be a different man. She would have made sure of it. She not only saw the good in people, she brought out the good in people. Frank knew she’d hate this version of him. It made her feel safe. Too bad Frank couldn’t keep her safe on that rainy night. He turned to writing novels as a way to release everything he had bottled up; the emotions, the crimes, the loss. As soon as his first book sold, he walked out on police work and became a full time novelist. It didn’t stop the dream from coming, but it had subsided for awhile. Sort of.
Frank shook himself from the memories and stared out of the sliding patio doors for a long time, slowly sipping the whiskey, letting the heat slide down his throat like it was punishment. He should be writing. He looked at his watch. “Damn,” he cursed under his breath at already wasting his early morning writing time. He’d have to make up for it after his morning run.
Nothing soothed the soul like a morning shot of poison, chased by a cup of strong coffee and pounding the pavement on a beautiful fall morning in Maine. He’d picked a path around his neighborhood where he could make a five mile run and end up on his own doorstep. The quiet serenity of his childhood stomping grounds had always eased his mind. But now the streets were too quiet, shrouded in thin morning fog that clung to the yellow birch and red maples. The trees, vibrant in daylight, loomed like sentinels, their branches casting jagged shadows across the pavement. The neighborhood, once a picture of New England charm, now seemed to watch him, as if it knew his torment.
Frank knew he shouldn’t get stuck in the same routine. Police work had taught him to be routine in some areas, but not in others. His morning run was routine. Same route every day. He always passed Charlotte McDougal and exchanged morning hellos. One day he was going to turn around and run with her. It never happened, but he kept thinking about it. Maybe it would be today. Maybe not.
The neighbor’s dog barked and he looked up from the glass. Something that never happened. Maybe he was on edge after the dream. Sweat ran down his face. It was never a good idea to have whiskey before running, but damn if he knew a better way to drown his sorrows.
Like clockwork, at 8:15, he spotted the redhead coming towards him, always three blocks over from the street they both lived on. He jogged right past her as he said hello. After a few steps he stopped, turned and watched her gaining distance between them. Dangit, Frank, just do it. Instead of arguing with himself again, he took off at a good pace, trying to catch up with her. She had covered some ground in the short time frame. He thought the extra speed would do him good, break him out of his rut, but his lungs were burning before he was halfway to her. “Damn whiskey. You gotta stop that.” He mumbled to himself between breaths. One last burst of speed and he caught up to her as she rounded the corner at the end of the street. “Mind if I join you?” He wheezed the words out as he fell into step beside her.
Her pace slowed as she cut her eyes over at him. Her gaze returned forward before quickening her pace again, “I don’t own the sidewalk, it’s yours to use.”
She wasn’t unfriendly, but he knew he’d crossed a boundary on her space. It was rude of him. “We’ve been passing each other for months. I thought it was time I acted like a good neighbor.”
She glanced his way before returning her eyes straight ahead, “Not many people in the neighborhood have welcomed me.”
The thought pained him. She was from England, but how quickly New Englanders forgot their roots. “I’m sorry to hear that. It was a lot friendlier when I was kid.” His breath was uneven, the faster pace doing a number on his lungs.
“You grew up here?”
“Yeah, same house I live in now.”
“Where’s your family?”
“My parents died right after I became a cop. My wife and I lived in DC when I was with Metro.”
She glanced over at him again, “I heard you were a writer?”
“I am. Retired early from the force and started writing about crime instead of solving it.”
“And your wife?”
“I lost her and the kids several years ago. Car accident.”
“I’m sorry,” she said as she kept her pace.
They ran along in silence for awhile. Maybe it was a mistake to invade her privacy. He hadn’t dated since the death of his wife. He knew it was time to start moving forward, but he was never one to push himself on others. Evelyn always told him he was too much of a gentleman for his own good. It had taken her six months to get his attention. He already felt like a heel, he might as well go ahead and stick his foot in his mouth. “I usually go to the diner to write after my run. Would you like to go have a cup of coffee?”
She kept her eyes straight ahead, “I don’t usually get out much. Besides it’d be interrupting your writing time.”
It was a brush off, but he had to give it one more shot, “You wouldn’t be. I could use a break, and to be honest, it’s been awhile since I sat down with a real person and had coffee.” Her paced quickened again, her arms tightened up closer to her body. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so bold. I just thought—” he said as he picked up his pace, unsure of what he thought. It was stupid. This dating thing had never worked for him.
Charlotte slowed down, came to a stop and turned to face him, “It’s okay. I haven’t been out with anyone in awhile. I’m not sure how to react, even when it’s a simple coffee invitation.” She glanced away and bit her lip before looking him in the eyes, “It was very nice of you.”
He smiled. It was a start. He could tell she was uncomfortable. Twenty years of detective work had clued him in about people. “So, is that a yes?” his voice hesitant.
Charlotte’s red hair caught in the morning light, a stark contrast to her guarded eyes, which seemed to hold secrets as deep as the fog around them.
He reached out and touched her arm. She flinched. It wasn’t just discomfort, her reaction carried the weight of someone who’d learned to fear unexpected gestures. Her Scottish accent hinted at a life left behind, not too long ago, one she didn’t speak of.
She started walking down the sidewalk, “I don’t know. My life is complicated. Other than baking for the social gatherings, I don’t have much free time.” Her voice carried a shadow of something unspoken, as if ‘complicated’ mean more than busy schedules, perhaps something she was running from, much like he was. She glanced toward the street as a car passed by and crossed her arms over her chest.
Frank saw the way she tensed up and took a step back. “Okay, I tell you what. If you decide to have coffee with me, meet me there at 10:30. If not, no hard feelings. Fair enough?” He hoped it would ease her concerns.
“Fair enough.” She looked over at him, “I’m going to head home now.” She jogged towards the end of the road where their street crossed this one.
He continued walking in the same direction, noticing the swing of her ponytail and her perfect stride as she ran off into the distance. He didn’t know what just happened, but he knew fear when he saw it. As he passed the old stone church, its cracked steeple loomed against the gray sky. Locals whispered it was cursed, tied to a disappearance decades ago, a case that was never solved. Frank avoided its gaze but today he felt its weight, as if it called him to uncover things that had been buried.
He turned back toward the house, but something in Charlotte’s eyes lingered, something that didn’t belong to her. Something that felt like she was running from something other than his coffee invitation.
