Part Two, Chapter Four:

The man sat at his desk in the Joint Task Force operational center, idly tapping his pen against his knee. He was in his standard uniform; crisp black suit, blue collared shirt, and a navy tie, his hair neatly parted and combed to the side. As he sat with a stack of paper in front of him, his mind wandered to the news his daughter had recently given him; she had seen her mother on her last mission. To him, it seemed as though she was building a dangerous and fragile relationship with the woman who had first left them twenty years ago. He frowned, his brow creasing thickly as he thought of her; his wife.

Before he realized what he was doing, he began scribbling angrily on the top sheet of paper in his stack.

Irina,

How dare you do this do my daughter! Our daughter. You toy with her as though she was a doll that didn't have a heart, but existed merely for your amusement. Just more of your feeble attempts to reconcile the errors and problems of your past. It's too late though. You can't turn back the hands of time and take a mulligan on your life.

I don't think you even realize how much you hurt us when you left. How much damage you caused. How much pain we endured.

I came home that day somewhat early. I got the note you had left me on the refrigerator, saying that Sydney was at the neighbor's house, dinner was in the oven, and that you would be home shortly; that you had to drive down to campus quickly and pick up some term papers you had to grade.

After changing out of my suit and checking on dinner, I got Sydney from the neighbors. She was happy to see me, and ran up to me shouting Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, and jumping into my arms. I listen to her happy babbling about the neighbor, whom she had named Mrs. Poofy-head because of her fluffy hairstyle, when she said offhand, Mommy was really sad when she left. That caught my attention, and I knelt down and asked her what was wrong. Sydney pushed her hair behind her ear, a miniature replica of your little quirk, and said, Mommy was really sad before she took me to Mrs. Poofy-head. She was crying real bad and before she left, she hugged me really really tight and told me Remember my little sweetie, I will always love you.' And I told her, Don't worry Mommy. I love you to the moon and back.' And then she smiled and said she'd be back in a little while.

I picked her up, and carried her into the house.

Hours went by.

I fed Sydney and put her to bed, tell her that I'd have Mommy kiss her goodnight when she came home.

I sat at the table, my dinner ice cold, waiting for you.

Around 10:30 that night, there was a knock at the door. I will always remember that moment. A police officer stood at the door, cap in hand, and told me that my wife was dead.

My wife, my Laura, my life, my love. Gone. Dead.

Weeks later, the day after your funeral, the FBI came and took me into custody. In front of Sydney. She was clinging to my leg, refusing to let go, begging and pleading with the men not to take her Daddy away from her too. They detached her, and Mrs. Erikson took her next door. I watched from the window of the car as Sydney struggled and tried to run to me. Finally she fell to the ground, sobbing.

I was in custody for six months. Six months in solitary.

They questioned me endlessly. Taunted me. Laughed at me. Told me how stupid I was to think that someone like you could actually have loved me. They beat me. Kicked, shoved, punched. I didn't resist.
They always wanted to know how I couldn't have realized what you really were.

I told them each time, because I loved her. Each time I said it, it became quieter, the blows I received after my answer taking affect.

When they decided I wasn't an accomplice, they released me, or what was left of me. I had lost thirty pounds, my hair was a mess and was starting to grey, I had a raggedy beard. My pants hung off my hips even after I pulled my belt as tightly as I could. I was a broken man.

I'm sure you've heard about what happened after. Everyone has.

How could you do this? Do you even know how much damage you caused? And each time you leave us, it hurts even more.

Don't you dare do this to Sydney. Don't you dare.

If you hurt her again, I will make you pay. I will hunt you down, and you will pay for hurting my daughter.

Jack

The man crumpled up the paper and shoved it in his briefcase, where it joined some cocktail napkins and a tape recorder. He frowned and continued tapping his pen idly on his knee.