by Yvonne Eve Walus

Stairway Press 2013

Trevor!

The air, thick as treacle, stuck in Annette’s lungs, threatened to explode in her chest.

Trevor. An old school friend. An ex-boyfriend. The only man who knew her the way she really was, because he himself awakened the very worst inside her.

His presence should have made the situation better. It made it infinitely worse. She’d never been able to keep a secret from him. Now she had to.

Adrenalin propelled her forward, one gluey step after another.

“Annette.”

She cleared the rasp from her throat. “Trevor Watson.” She made herself walk faster, her bare feet registering the coolness of the terracotta. “I’m so glad it’s you.” One more lie for the evening””what did it matter?

“Annette,” he repeated. His voice was fuller now, his face all grown up. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

You have no idea.

On perfect-hostess autopilot, she took his hand in both of hers and led him into the lounge. Her knees were jelly, and she still couldn’t remember how to breathe.

“I’m sorry we meet under these sad circumstances,” Trevor said. “Your husband”¦”

The remainder of the sentence slid off her earlobes without reaching the eardrum. She couldn’t concentrate. They stood in the middle of the room, his hand still in hers, until her upbringing took over. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to concentrate.”

Trevor started talking again. She watched his lips, and again couldn’t distinguish the sounds, as though he spoke in a foreign language. Shell-shocked.

Is that what soldiers meant, this inability to use your senses?

If only her brain worked properly!

She wasn’t stupid, contrary to what Gordon sometimes said””shouted””during his lapses of temper.

She let go of Trevor’s hand, rubbed her forehead.

“I feel so””” she broke off. What did she feel? Wrapped in cellophane? Guilty? Lost? All her life, she had trained hard to suppress her emotions, to please first her parents, later her husband. Tonight was an exception. “Please,” the words escaped before she could bite down on them. “I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you mean?”

BURN ALL THE FILES”¦

Should she show Trevor the message?

DON’T TELL THE COPS.

Somehow, she didn’t think so. She forced her face into a mask of a helpless female. “What’s the protocol, Trevor? Do I call the funeral home? Do the police do it? How do I tell people?” The mask immobilised her face. Oh, dear Lord, she had to tell the children.

Trevor’s gaze became more focussed. “And your worry, at this point in time,” he accentuated the last word, “is protocol?”

(more at http://operationgenocide.com)