The Fifth to Die: A gripping, page-turner of a crime thriller. J.D. Barker

       21

       Porter

       Day 2 • 12:18 p.m.

      Porter needed a Big Mac.

      Not only a Big Mac but a large fry, chocolate shake, and an apple pie for dessert.

      He needed it so badly, the craving drove him to walk steadfast from his apartment, three blocks down Wabash, and directly into the nearest McDonald’s, which was hopping this time of day. He ordered, took his meal to a small table in the back, and devoured every bit. Seven minutes later, he found himself staring at an empty tray, his stomach still rumbling.

      He desperately wanted to talk to Heather. The immense hole in his heart once filled by the sound of his wife’s voice burned.

      Heather had been gone for six months now, and it felt like six thousand lifetimes. People told him he would heal with time, the hole would grow smaller, fill with other loves, with life lived. It hadn’t, though. Instead, the void only seemed to grow larger, and he found himself missing her more each day.

      Heather understood. Heather listened.

      Porter wanted to tell her about the past six months. He needed her advice. He needed the sound of her voice.

      “You kept me from venturing down the rabbit hole, Button,” Porter said quietly. “Now I’m knee deep and sinking fast.”

      Last month he canceled her cell phone service. Until then, he’d called her regularly, sometimes three or four calls in a day, just to hear her sweet voice on the other end of the line, enough distance to make it sound real, to make her sound real. Silly, he knew, but it was all he had. Her presence slowly faded from his life no matter how tight he held on. Her body may have died suddenly, but her spirit lingered. Porter held that spirit’s hand with all his might, unwilling to let go at first, finally coming to the realization that he had no other choice. That was the night he turned off her cell phone, and when he called her the next morning, it wasn’t her voice that answered but instead a robotic operator telling him the number was no longer in service. At that point, her hand slipped from his and she was gone.

      He would kill to have her back.

      Even if only for five minutes, to have her back, to hold her, to ask her what to do next.

      “I love you, Button,” he said quietly.

      With a deep sigh, Porter stood up, gathered his trash, and dumped everything into the overflowing can at the door. He stepped out into the icy day, welcoming the numb of it.

      Then he wandered.

      Twenty minutes later Porter found himself standing in the lobby of Flair Tower on West Erie, a small puddle forming at his feet. He hadn’t planned on coming here, and as he pushed through the doors he considered turning right back around, but instead he found himself standing still, his eyes looking out across the lobby but not really taking anything in, dazed.

      “Detective?”

      Porter hadn’t heard her walk up. He hadn’t expected her to walk up, a building this size, but there she was, standing in front of him.

      “Hello, Emory.”

      The last time he had seen her was at the hospital shortly after she was rescued from 4MK. Bishop had placed her at the bottom of an elevator shaft in that building on Belmont, used her as bait to lure Porter in. She had been malnourished, gaunt, her skin pale. Her right wrist had been badly damaged by the handcuffs he used to restrain her, and Bishop had removed Emory’s left ear, yet she still managed to smile that day. Her hair was longer now, her face fuller, color in her cheeks.

      “Detective, are you okay?”

      “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I’m not really sure why I’m here. I meant to come and see you, you know, after, but things have been so hectic, the time got away from me,” he said.

      “Let’s sit.” She took his hand and led him to some couches placed in front of a fireplace in the corner of the lobby. A log crackled, wrapped in thick flames, the heat reaching out and lapping at the air.

      Porter tugged off his gloves, his fingers nervously twitching together. “I probably shouldn’t be here.”

      Emory smiled. “That’s silly — it’s good to see you. I meant to stop by the station a dozen times but couldn’t bring myself to go. Silly. I guess it’s hard to find the words after something like that. The whole thing feels like a bad nightmare that happened