On the porch is a long, brown package. The return address is a post office box in Thompson. When I squat down to pick up the parcel and carry it inside, it’s heavy. I’m wary, to say the least, as I place the box on the kitchen table and slice open the packing tape.
As I push the top half of the box away, I see my disassembled Barrett M82 sniper rifle.
I run my finger over the sleek metal. Near the trigger, the metal is darker with no scratches from wear and tear. It’s been repaired, and I have no doubt that it will work perfectly. When I lift the barrel from the box, I discover a small piece of paper.
Finish your business and return home.
Rinaldo had not been fooled. He had known exactly what I was doing the whole time. Home meant Chicago—there is no doubt in my head about that. I don’t know if I want to scream or cry.
I do neither. I laugh instead. The sound is empty and hollow in the deserted room.
In the back of the bedroom closet, there is a small safe. From it, I remove an old flip phone and select the only number entered into it. It only rings twice.
“Evan?” I close my eyes as I hear Rinaldo’s voice. I have to swallow before I answe
r.
“Yeah.”
“You got my package.” It’s not a question.
“Yes, sir.” I want to ask him how he had known I had survived, but I don’t. He probably wouldn’t tell me anyway.
“There are a lot of changes coming,” Rinaldo says. “I’m going to need your undivided attention.”
“You have it,” I say.
“Really?”
I take a deep breath, but I can’t quite bring myself to say the words.
“Evan?”
“She’s gone,” I finally say in a harsh whisper. “Finally had enough of my shit.”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone.
“I’m sorry, son,” he says, “but it might be for the best.”
I can’t agree with him, so I say nothing.
“Take your time and do what you need to do,” he tells me.
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep in touch.”
The phone goes silent.
I pack a bag. The cabin looks like a tornado went through it, but I’m not cleaning it up. I doubt I will ever even return to it. As I take a last look around to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, the quarter on its chain beckons me.
I touch the coin, tracing its edge with my finger. Slowly, I drag it across the surface of the nightstand and hold the quarter in my palm. As I grip it, I can feel the metal warm from my body heat. I remember the day I did the same thing in a far more rustic cabin in the Arizona desert. I left her behind because I had nothing to offer her but apologies.
Just like now.
“Sorry,” I whisper as I drop the quarter onto the center of the bed.
I stare at it a moment, square my shoulders, and pick up my bag. Near the front door, the duffel with my Barrett sits underneath the coatrack. I bundle up against the cold, pick up all my gear, and lock the door behind me.