Chapter 9 - The Fracture
Mark's fists slammed into the doctor’s chest, but instead of bone and muscle, his hands sank into thick, icy mud. The sterile hospital corridor shattered like brittle porcelain, the fragments tumbling into a dark, bottomless abyss.
Suddenly, Mark was back on his knees in the dirt cellar of the suburban house. Above him, rain seeped through the floorboards, dripping onto his neck. The yellow lightbulb swung crazily on its wire, casting wild shadows against the stone walls.
Clara was not beside him. Toby was not in his arms.
""Clara! Toby!"" he screamed into the dark.
From the deepest corner of the cellar, behind the stacks of rotting cardboard boxes, a low, wet breathing replied. It was the same sound he had heard beneath the living room.
Mark stood up, wiping damp earth from his jeans. His eyes adjusted to the dim light. The cellar floor wasn't flat dirt; it had been excavated. A rectangular trench had been dug into the center of the room, six feet long, three feet wide, and filled with murky water.
Floating on the surface of the trench was the picture book from the coffee table.
Mark approached the pit with hesitant steps, his heart pounding in his throat. He looked down into the muddy water. Reflected back at him wasn't his own face, but the face of the biker from the diner—the tattooed man with dark hair, worn leather, and eyes hollowed by decades of regret.
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""You're looking for the wrong family, Mark,"" a gravelly voice echoed from behind him.
Mark spun around. Jax stood at the bottom of the cellar stairs, his leather vest worn and stained, a cigarette burning between his rough, calloused fingers.
