| Romance Fiction posted October 1, 2025 | Chapters: |
...30 31 -32- 33... 
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Mark Begins To UnRavel
A chapter in the book Yesterday's Dreams
The Untold Story Chap 10
by Begin Again
The wind nipped her cheeks until they turned pink. Tears mixed with mascara striped her face like a crooked mask. Her feet carried her, zombie-slow, to the cemetery gates.
The monument — Faith, Love, Hope — stood like a proud sentinel, tall and strong, watching over the living and the dead. As Rachel reached the gate, whatever promise it held slipped through her fingers like sand through an hourglass.
The monument — Faith, Love, Hope — stood like a proud sentinel, tall and strong, watching over the living and the dead. As Rachel reached the gate, whatever promise it held slipped through her fingers like sand through an hourglass.
She stumbled over gravel and past rows of headstones, oblivious to names. The sky was the color of old sheet metal. Trees along the fence clicked their naked fingers; the last colorful leaves were gone. A soft mist drifted down as Rachel folded into the damp grass.
Sobs came choppy, stealing her breath. Finally, she managed to speak. She cried, begging her mother for an answer, "Was everything in our lives a lie?"
She pressed her fists to her eyes, but the flood only swelled. "I can't —" The rest tore out. "Am I supposed to fight for what's right when you couldn't?" She swept the envelope across the stone. "You chose hatred over love. Why? What hold did he have on you?"
She tipped her face up. "Father in Heaven, please." The prayer shook. "My life, my family — was it all deceit?" Her breath came in gulps. "What do you expect me to do?"
Gravel shifted behind her.
She turned — red eyes, hair stuck to her face — and there he was.
Noah. Hands in his pockets, still as if any sudden move might spook a wild thing. He didn't speak. He waited.
A guttural sound, much like a wounded animal, broke from her. He crossed the space in three strides, knelt close without crowding, and opened his arms.
She fell into him like the air had given out. One hand found the small of her back; the other cradled her head. He held her firm — solid like the ground. "I can't," she gasped against his shirt. "I can't do this."
"You can," he said into her hair, softly. Barely more than a whisper. "Remember, you're not alone. I'm here."
She sobbed once, sharply, and again, a bit longer. He didn't shush her. He didn't try to explain Mark, or Julia, or the years of history that pressed down on her. He just held her like a stone, unmovable.
When the sobs thinned to jagged breaths, he loosened his hold only enough to see her face. "Look at me," he breathed.
She did. Their eyes met, and she didn't look away.
"None of this is your fault," he said. "You hear me?"
She nodded.
"Blank spots kept you breathing," he said. "You're filling them now. That's brave. That's hard. And you're not doing it by yourself."
Her chest hitched. "Mark made me feel so small, as if the whole thing might be my imagination. Like the pictures were just —" She swallowed. "— nothing."
Noah glanced at the envelope on the ground, then back. "They're the truth," he said. "And we're going to prove it to anyone who will listen."
She wiped her cheek with the heel of her hand, leaving a streak. He reached into his coat and produced a clean handkerchief, as if he'd planned to have one. "Here."
"Who even carries these?" she said, taking it.
"Men who work counters and get sneezed on," he murmured. "Men who sit with women in cold places until their breathing evens out."
The wind pressed at their backs. The cemetery was silent. The headstones asked no questions, and their occupants offered no answers. Rachel breathed in and out until her lungs continued to do so without her having to remind them. "He's made the lie into a life," she said. "It's all he'll see." She let the handkerchief rest in her lap. "I have to finish this, don't I? But I don't know if I can."
"We will," he said. "Together we'll hunt the truth, and when we find it, we'll put the past to rest."
She nodded — the movement felt like the start of steadier ground. Her gaze drifted to the monument, then down to the envelope in the grass. She closed her hand over it. "Faith. Love. Hope," she whispered. "That's where the truth lives."
Noah stood and offered his hand. She took it. He pulled her up slowly so the world wouldn't tilt. They stood under the gray sky for a moment, just the two of them, shutting out the world, the pain, and the grief.
"We search for the truth first," he said. "Only then can we find the rest."
"Truth first," she echoed, and slid the envelope under her arm like a thing worth carrying.
They walked to the gate. At the curb, his truck waited, paint scuffed by honest work. He opened the passenger door and didn't hover; he knew she'd ask if she needed help.
When she was settled, he closed her door and rounded to his side. The heater coughed and then sighed, letting its warmth fill the cab. A faint splattering of rain marked the windshield.
"Where to?" he asked.
She looked through their shared reflection in the glass — their faces superimposed, a little blurred. The weight in her chest shifted from crushing to heavy — but lighter than before. Her eyes lifted to his. "Would you hold me?"
He wrapped his arms around her across the bench seat, pulling her close. "I was hoping you'd ask."
She tipped her chin up. His lips brushed hers softly, then with more intention. The cab went very still as they clung to each other, finding something both of them had been looking for.
Neither wanted to let the moment slip away, but they both knew they had things to do. Noah was the first to speak, though his arms remained wrapped around her. "Where do we start?"
"Karen and Bill," she said. "Then, Tessa. Then, Mrs. Lawson." Her fingers tightened on the envelope. "And after them, the prison."
Noah nodded, eased the truck into gear, and pulled them into a town that had learned to keep its secrets. The tires hummed a low, steady note. "Let's go find the truth," he said.
She let out the breath she'd been holding. "Yes," she said. "Let's."
*****
The house was quiet after Rachel left. He'd almost gone after her — almost. He watched her in the car, and when she got out, he hoped she was coming back, but she turned and walked away.
His anger had surged. How dare she make a fool of him, teasing him and waiting for him to come to her? He watched her go, cursing her every step.
Minutes later, he stood in the dining room with a stack of bills in his hand. He didn't remember crossing the room. The bills were just there. He set them on the buffet and leaned on his palms. His anger hadn't subsided. With each passing moment, his thoughts got wilder. He counted the envelopes twice, then again, lips moving.
She had no right to march in and throw pictures on his table. She didn't know the nights he drove their mother around because she couldn't sleep. She didn't sit in waiting rooms. She didn't hear Julia call for Rachel until her voice wore thin. He stayed. He did the work. He was her savior. She couldn't take that from him.
That was the story he'd built and held on to. The one Joe had taught him to live by.
Joe made everything else easy. Cash on the table. Hundreds in the glove box. "For groceries." "For the lawyer." He signed a second mortgage because Joe said it was the only way to do it. He sold the clock. He sold the brooch. He sold the silver. The house was still here. The lights stayed on. What was the harm?
He tried to laugh and stopped. Instead, his head filled with his mother's voice from the bedroom — Rachel. Where's my Rachel? It started softly. It turned into a plea. It ended as a demand he couldn't shut out.
Bits of the night she died flashed through his mind. He closed his eyes, trying to shut the thoughts out. He told himself he didn't kill her. He'd only done what she asked.
He looked at the cabinet where they used to keep the insulin. He saw the orange cap and the clear barrel as if they were in front of him. He saw Julia in the chair by the window, robe loose at the knee, hands shaking, whispering, "Please, Mark. Make it stop. Call Rachel."
He took the syringe. He pulled the plunger past the number the doctor said. Past the next mark. He kept going until the barrel was full. He smiled so she wouldn't be afraid.
"You're not going to feel pain again," he'd whispered.
The needle slid under her thin skin. Her hand twitched once and relaxed. Her face eased. Her last breath escaped her lips, raspy and low. He lifted her. She was light. He carried her to the bed, tucked the blanket, smoothed her hair, and kissed her forehead. "Sleep, Mama," he said. "Sleep."
A quick call to one of Joe's friends, a doctor, and the paperwork said heart attack. No one asked questions. No one cared.
Now the kitchen light buzzed. A pipe ticked. Mark rubbed his face with both hands until his eyes watered. "They don't know what I carried," he said into his palms. "They don't know what I did."
Joe's voice came back the way it always did — inside his head, as clear as a mouth at his ear — Do what needs doing. Keep your mouth shut. Be useful.
An icy fear crept across his heart. If Rachel took those pictures to the police — if she brought that girl and the neighbor and their notes — if she started asking questions he couldn't dodge— Too many ifs screamed in his head.
He yanked a drawer, pulled an envelope, and slid out the checkbook. The number wasn't enough. Not for the next payment. Not for anything.
He shoved the register back and slammed the drawer. The dishes in the hutch rattled.
"She doesn't understand," he said. "None of them do."
He looked toward the back door. On the other side was the yard, beneath the flower garden— where he'd worked with a shovel when he was a kid because Joe told him to. He remembered — Joe backed the truck in. Joe gave orders. Mark kept his mouth shut and did what he was told. Sometimes, late at night, he still heard metal hitting stone out there. He still saw the body.
If Rachel dug, she would find what he already knew was there.
He turned back to the table. He could still see where she'd laid out the photos in a row. He wiped the spot with his hand, though there was nothing on it.
A car door closed on the street. Voices faded.
"Secrets don't stay buried forever," he said, his voice too loud. He swallowed, fighting the tears. "I just have to keep shoveling — burying it all — until she goes away."
He listened for her car, for the opening of the door, for anything besides this silence. There was nothing, but he kept listening to the voices in his head.
 Recognized |
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