Paint it black
I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and must have it painted black
Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts
It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black
The Rolling Stones
'What's left for me now?'
Martin Riggs stood by the door of his trailer and watched his partner's SUV disappear into the night, the hint of a smile still etched on his face.
For a few hours, and thanks to Roger's family, he had been able to forget about Eddie Flores, his possible involvement in Miranda's death and the misery that Christmas now represented for him.
Amazingly, they were able to squeeze a family of five plus his sorry self into the trailer, and Trish had managed to cook a delicious three-course Christmas meal on his run-down, never-been-used stove. Besides a small incident with a reindeer that had cut the power and left them in the dark for nearly half an hour, the evening had been an unexpected yet welcomed distraction from reading El Paso police reports and God knows what else.
Thanks, he had mouthed to Roger after the initial surprise, not fully trusting his voice. Surely they would have preferred to spend Christmas Eve at home with a proper table, chairs and all those other things that make a family comfortable but they showed up anyway, settling for a tight, neglected Airstream instead. They even bought him a present. Martin was positive that Trish had had the final word in the decision, if not the whole idea. The woman was gold, Roger was one lucky son of a bitch.
"How are you holding up?", she had asked quietly, her brown eyes laden with concern. It was the gentlest of inquiries, and he had felt a warm spot in his chest. Nothing like happiness or even relief of course, but gratitude.
Miranda would've loved her. Martin could picture them sitting outside, laughing and trading LA stories as their kids played together. They would have been good friends. If only...
Swallowing hard, he closed the door and leaned against it. The tiny Christmas tree had reclaimed its place on the counter. Riana had found it as she was helping Trish with dinner, and he'd had to agree to light it up again. Baby Harper had looked especially pleased to see that, considering the lack of other items that would interest a child her age around.
'I've been keeping it together. And look where it got me.'
Bullshit. He was drowning and he knew it. And that was before he even got reacquainted with the Flores.
Eddie had been a sight for sore eyes, and hearing him mention his wife had sent Martin over the edge. If it wasn't for his partner -again, he'd now be in much serious trouble.
Walking to the kitchen area, he retrieved the box he'd hidden in a corner when the Murtaughs had showed up and brought it over to the coffee table, spreading its content on the small wooden surface. It was everything he had on Tito and Eddie Flores, years of hard work with Narcotics that he had thankfully decided to take with him to LA along with a few other case files.
There had to be something in here. Why would that scumbag Eddie hint at Miranda's death if he hadn't anything to do with it? Martin had tried everything. Asking, threatening the guy –begging even, making a fool out of himself as his eyes filled with tears but to no avail. Eddie hadn't budged an inch. And when he had finally seen a glint of fear in the younger man's eyes and thought maybe he was going to tell him something, his uncle had offed him without a second thought.
The words on the police reports started to blur as silence enveloped the room, the cheerful atmosphere that had colored the place not too long ago now a distant memory.
'Sorry, Riggs. There wasn't anything to indicate it wasn't an accident.'
Scorsese had to be wrong. He just had to. Martin wasn't sure why he hadn't considered the possibility until now but it looked more and more plausible that the truck colliding into his wife's car hadn't just been a random accident.
And that she might have died because of him.
The realization hit him like a ton of bricks and he gasped for air, as if the mere act of breathing had suddenly become an impossible task. Spots danced around his vision as his heart started to race in panic. He felt the room closing in on him and forced himself to his feet, swaying as he stood up, focusing on inflating his lungs. Shallow breaths came in gasps and his body tingled as if pricked by hundreds of invisible needles.
'God, Miranda, what have I done?'
He hadn't had a panic attack in months but this…this was bad. Something he should definitely discuss with Doctor Cahill if there was ever another session.
Walking on unsteady legs, he went over to the sink and splashed cold water on his face, wiping it with the back of his shirt sleeve. That didn't give him any relief either so he sat back on the couch and bent over, eyes closed, hands on his knees, trying to regulate his breathing. It took him a long while but he eventually managed to regain control of himself. Or at least the part of himself that allowed him to function. His mind was still going a mile a minute, writhing with thoughts and doubts, questions and fears, all tangled together like worms.
'You weren't that important in El Paso and you're not that important now.'
He'd told Avery that they had him believe in things that didn't exist. That wasn't true. The scene at the airport kept replaying in his head over and over again. Tito Flores knew something. He was damn sure of it, but the cartel leader was now back in Mexico and completely out of reach.
Martin leaned back into the couch, laying his head back against the cushions.
Defeat weighed down on him in the form of exhaustion. Losing Miranda had left him weak, disconnected, miserable. Ever since she'd died he had tried to commit a slow suicide. Drinking too much, eating all the wrong things, taking stupid chances on the job. He just couldn't seem to stop his downward spiral, and though he'd found a trusted friend in Roger there were still nights -too many nights, when he didn't seem to care enough anymore.
'If you really feel that way then you need to go ahead and turn that thing on yourself.'
He unconsciously reached for his gun, fingers slowly tracing its edges.
It would be so easy to put an end to it all. The heartache and the suffering, the emptiness and the pain, but he wasn't even brave to do that. What he could do, what he would do, was find if the cartel was really responsible for her death and if so, make sure they paid for it. Whatever it cost him.
He just needed to survive the in-between.
THE END