Maggie sat alone in her kitchen, elbows on her knees, staring blankly at an empty spot on the floor, holding an unopened bottle of beer. It wasn’t like Maggie to have an unopened drink in her hand, but she was so distracted she hadn’t even noticed that she’d come into the kitchen, let alone that the drink was still unopened. Arthur was back in London, working on some project with a friend from his teenage years. She didn’t even have good connections to the researchers in the area—so she couldn’t vet any of the intel he was receiving. On top of that, she hadn’t heard Daniel’s voice in nearly eight months, and she was beginning to wonder if he was ever coming back. And on top of that Jase was still lying unconscious in her spare bedroom, his silent watchful wife sitting at his bedside. If Jase didn’t wake up, that was a whole list of complications that Maggie would have to deal with on top of everything else.
Maggie lived in her life in a constant state of “It’s been a bad week” but this had been a bad week even for her. She was exhausted.
There was a tap on the kitchen door leading outside, which brought Maggie back into the present. She considered the unopened bottle for a second with a furrowed brow. She stood up, using the edge of the kitchen counter to pop off the top of the beer as she went to see who was at the door. She took a long sip as she looked through the peephole, trying to determine who was outside without letting them know she was there. She couldn’t see anyone, and decided she was too tired to try to make any further investigation into the matter, so flipped off the outdoor lights, and turned back to the kitchen table, going to take another sip of her beer.
She froze, the bottle only half way to her lips and her body only turned half way to the table. There was another bottle of beer sitting on her kitchen table—a brand she didn’t have in the house—weighing down what appeared to be a white envelope. Only one person could get in and out of this house without her knowing. Only one person could have been in this room at the same time as her without giving himself away. But why wouldn’t he have said anything? Why wouldn’t he tell her what he was doing? Shouldn’t she be angry at him for leaving her in the dark for so long?
She decided she didn’t care—and rushed forward to look at the envelope, spilling some of the beer in her hand. Sure enough, it was Daniel’s cramped thin handwriting on the front of the envelope, reading “Maggie, My Love.” With all the patience of a six-year-old on Christmas, Maggie tore into the letter to see what he had to say for himself. It had been a very bad week, but if Danny was back—it could only go up from here.